#[/crawls back from the depths of school ]

[dinogoofymutated]

Nightcrawler/GN!Reader The first Fic of the season is here!!! I'll go ahead an outright say that the other fic will NOT be this long and this in-depth. This one took me literally the whole month of september when it was only supposed to take me two weeks. I'm going to do my best to make sure that the other fics come out on time, but please have a little patience with me ;-; Also, This fic has not been beta read bc it is an absolute beast at 8k words (at least for me), so if anything seems off, or the ending was too abrupts, don't be mean lol.

You've recently moved into an old, spooky mansion that your great-aunt left you in her will. It's been uninhabited for years but is strangely well-kept. You're sure you live here alone, but every once in a while you can't shake the feeling of being watched…

Tws: Demons, stereotypical witchcraft, Alcohol consumption, Graphic depictions of blood and wounds for a minute, I'll add more if I can think of any.

    When the keys are plopped carelessly into your hands, they’re cold. They’re still cold, two weeks later when you finish moving in. It wasn't a fancy affair, no movers or big trucks, just some friends and the van they borrowed from the school. Truthfully, you didn’t really have a lot anyway. Most of them had honestly only shown up to offer their condolences for your loss.

    Your groceries feel heavier than normal when you set them on the kitchen counter, stepping back with a sigh. Never in your wildest dreams would you have even imagined of living in a place like this. You’d never even visited Aunt Maude’s house- Your, house. Sure, you and the rest of the family all knew she was well-off, but no one had a clue that when the will was read she had left you a Victorian-era mansion along with her estate. Even you hadn’t until you googled her address after the lawyer gave you the keys. 

    As surprising as it was, it was definitely your Great-Aunt Maude’s house. Every bathroom, bedroom, living space, You could see her in all of it. She was kooky and eclectic, with a love for all things strange and unusual. It was comforting, almost. To be wrapped in a house filled with the remnants of your aunt. Your eyes sting as you begin to fill up the long empty fridge, organizing it to your liking. You close the door and see your graduation photos stuck to it, along with a photo strip from the photo booth she dragged you into at your sweet sixteen. You suck in a shakey sob, tears welling in your eyes for what feels like the millionth time that day. You’re sad, and exhausted, and you haven't even unpacked yet, most of your belongings set in boxes in the Sitting room and Hallway.  But you just… couldn’t bring yourself to bother. Everything that was cold was already put in the fridge, so you decided the rest can wait till the morning.

    You trudge up the stairs with as much energy as you can muster, and when you finally make it to the master bedroom, you’re ready to pass out. The room is decorated in a way that feels much more like you than it felt like your Aunt, and you notice that the quilt on the bed was one she had shown you at Christmas one year. One you told her you very much envied. It was like she had made the room your own before she even stepped foot into the nursing home. The thought is enough to choke you up again. You crawl underneath the soft covers in a pretty pitiful manner, falling asleep almost immediately. 

    It’s only when you wake up the next morning that you start to notice something strange about this house. 

    The kitchen is a somewhat long walk from the upstares bedroom, and you’re basically starving by the time you get downstairs. You yawn as you grab the milk out of the fridge, still feeling half asleep as you turn around to grab the cereal off the counter only to find it… gone. In fact, all of the groceries you had left on the counter yesterday were gone.

     The realization is like a shot of ice through your veins. What the fuck?… You must have put them away last night, right? But you knew they were on the counter when you went to bed. You feel like you’re going to throw up, thinking about the chance that a burglar had broken in last night and you hadn’t heard it because you were upstairs. You sprint to the sitting room taking note of all your boxes and things, making sure to double-check that your TV was actually there and not a figment of your imagination, but it was definitely solid. You cautiously walk back to the kitchen, staring at the pantry door for an anxious moment before biting the bullet and swiftly opening it.

    All your groceries were in place. All are organized neatly exactly where you would have preferred them to be. Strange. You must have woken up last night and done it. Right? It wouldn’t be too absurd to assume you had put the groceries away half-asleep and forgotten about it. That had to be it. It’s not like someone broke in last night just to put your groceries away. Now that was just plain ridiculous. 

    From then on out, The strange things only seemed to continue.

    Sure, a house this old wasn’t without a general peculiarity about it, but after being told it hadn’t been inhabited since Aunt Maude put herself into inpatient care, it should be dusty, right? A home of this size, cluttered with the many odds and ends she had collected over the years? You’d never heard of a house that could dust itself. Your hands wander more than ever as you traverse the mansion, they run down the banister, across the pretty wallpaper, even taking a swipe at a shelf or two, and still, they’re clean. Not a smudge or spec of dirt on your fingers. 

    Strange, but not unexplainable. Maybe she had scheduled a cleaning service to take place after her death or something. You didn’t know. But a week goes by. Then two and then three, and everything is still spotless. And that was the least of it. Lights seemed to turn off by themselves at night. Things that you’re sure you heard fall were placed upright. If you forgot to turn the oven off, it would already be cool by the time you ran back into the kitchen- and the house constantly smelled like sulfur and brimstone. At this point, you’ve called the fire department so many times worried about a gas leak that they think you’ve gone crazy. 

    You just felt… Uneasy. Like you were being watched.

    “I feel like I’m losing my mind, Jean.” You watch as the redhead tries to hide a smile on the other side of the Facetime call, and you can’t help but pout a little when she inevitably laughs. Your little image on the top part of the camera must look rather ridiculous, hands tangled in some string lights you had found in the closet. As strangely organized and spotless as everything was, it seems that the Christmas lights in the back of the closet weren’t so lucky. Yay for you. 

    “Look, you’re just overthinking things. Don’t stress out about it.” Jean says, ever the voice of reason. You know she’s probably right. “Besides, you’ve been through a lot lately. It’s not abnormal for stress to do weird things to the mind.”

    “Yeah, I guess so.” You mumble. Detangling these lights is beginning to be a bit trickier than you first expected them to be. Each tangle and loop seems to be interconnected, and no matter how gently or firmly you are with the cords, another knot seems to form with every probable success. You sigh in annoyance, and Jean raises an eyebrow at you. 

    “Do I need to ask about the Christmas lights?” You’re about ready to give up on them when she asks, dramatically dropping them in your lap.

    “Well, remember how I was gonna throw that big Halloween party this year?” Jean hums in response. “Well, turns out that all the decorations I had for the apartment only cover like, an eighth of the house. I’ve been rummaging around in the closets all day to try and find something that might work and all I’ve been able to find is this.” You hold up the old, tangled lights for her to see.

    “That’s weird. With what I know about your Aunt, you’d think that she’d have a ton of decorations.” Jean mentions. You groan loudly, pressing your palms into the round edges of your eyesockets in frustration. 

    “Exactly! She loved Halloween, and with a house like this, there’s no way she’d just leave it bare. I’ve raided practically every closet and storage room in the house and haven’t found anything at all.” You almost shout the words, exasperated at this point. You knew for a fact Aunt Maude had to have something. It didn’t matter if it was even one of those awful animatronic jumping spiders at this point, you’d take anything if it meant you wouldn’t have to tap into your inheritance to decorate this big ass house (because there was no way in hell you weren’t going to decorate, you’d never disgrace your Aunt’s memory like that.). Jean is quiet for a moment, looking sympathetic through the screen. To be honest, as much as you value Jean’s advice, you’re beginning to think she’s got nothing to help you until-

    “Are you sure there’s not an attic or anything?”

    The thought makes you pause.

    “Oh my god, I’m an actual idiot.” You practically shriek the words, quickly standing from the floor and shoving the Christmas lights to the side as you run to get some shoes on. The attic! God, you feel so stupid for not thinking of it before! All you had to do was find the access hatch!

    “Just be careful though! Even though the house is renovated, that doesn’t mean-”

    “I’ll call you later, Okay? I’m gonna go look upstairs!”

    “No no no, don’t-”

    It takes you forever to find that damn attic. You’d think that it would be easy to find, seeing that it’s sort of an important structure in this house, but nooo. It’s been almost a month since you moved in, and yet you still feel like you’re lost while you wander around the third floor. How hard could it be to find a simple hatch? You feel like you’re looking in all the wrong places, and you know you probably are. You’re pacing around one of the third-floor bedrooms looking at the ceiling when a noise from the billiards room across the hall makes you freeze. 

    Were those footsteps?

    No, you were home alone. It couldn’t be. 

    Still, the sound leaves you on edge. You stalk across the hallway, stopping at the door to the other room as you briefly debate on how to open it. A small shuffle from the ceiling makes you jump a little, and you quickly decide, Fuck it. We ball. 

    You swing the door open with a bit more force than necessary and find the room… empty. Right. Of course, it was. You sigh in relief, running a stressed hand through your scalp as you take in the sight of the room for the first time since your original walk-through of the home. 

    In your brief scan of the room, you manage to spot a small string hanging right above the pool table, swinging back and forth. You slowly look up, and there it is. The fucking attic hatch. 

    “Oh god damn it. Was it really that easy to find?” You mumble to yourself, wondering if you really were just that stupid. 

    It doesn’t take a lot of time to move the pool table over so that you can open the latch and pull the rickety old ladder down. It looked more modern than most of the house, but it was easy to tell it was about as old as you were. You take a moment to just stare into the black hole in the ceiling, wondering if all this was really worth it. Well, you already spent all this time looking for the thing, so…

    You’re a little extra careful as you climb the ladder up into the attic, using the flashlight in your phone to light the way the further you go. The attic is a little bit dustier than the rest of the house, but to be honest, it was cleaner than you were expecting. It's dark and cramped, but once you fully enter you find that you can at least stand up to your full height. The excitement of finding the place has begun to wear off, and you start to feel a little flighty as you look around and the light from your flashlight shifts. This is okay. It’s fine. You’re fine. Maybe she had lights installed, right? You look up at the roof and are thankful to see those long, industrial fluorescent lights screwed to the ceiling. Thank god. 

    It takes a minute of stumbling and carefully following the wires to a corner of the attic, doing your best not to trip over anything along the way, and you find a small light switch in the corner of the room. You breathe a sigh of relief as you flick it on, and the lights overhead blink and light up. That’s a bit better!

    You find that Aunt Maude’s attic is cluttered with various random items, some older, others a bit more modern. The exercise bike and the Zumba tapes made you laugh a little as you passed them by, while some older cloth dolls and bunnies just made you uncomfortable. You’re not really sure where to start the search, so you just walk around for a minute. One of the lights overhead is starting to flicker a little, and you’re inwardly hoping that there’s no faulty wiring or anything that might start a fire when your foot catches on something.

    “Oh Shit!”

    There’s not a lot of time for you to catch yourself when you fall, eating absolute shit as you fall face-first into a stack of boxes. You smash your nose into something particularly hard when you land, and there’s a variety of shapes sticking into your sides that have sprouted from the smashed boxes below you. Ow, ow ow! God damnit! This is what you get for not listening to Jean. You feel a little dizzy as you sit up amongst the boxes, holding your nose tightly while you wonder if you just broke it. Your eyes are blurry from the pain, and it takes a second for you to fully come to.

    “What the hell did I just fall into?” You’re blinking away the blurriness as the sight in front of you finally starts to clear, A bunch of broken boxes now greeting you. Boxes that now had a bunch of plastic bones sticking out of the torn sides. You make a fairly embarrassing noise of excitement when you realize you had found exactly what you were looking for in the first place. The Halloween decorations!! Thank god! You were so unbelievably happy to find them that you couldn’t help but reach forward and look through the boxes immediately. 

    After thoroughly inspecting the contents, you realize that there were about eight large boxes of Halloween decorations in total. Motherfucking eight! This was perfect! The only thing was that there was still one little issue: getting them downstairs. You try not to think about those rickety ladders too hard as you move each box to a place a little easier to get to. Your back is already aching when you’re done for the moment, so you decide to sit down on the floor and lean back a little, catching your breath while looking at those eight, somewhat heavy boxes you were gonna have to fool around with in just a moment. Your foot nudges something as you do so. Hm. 

    Sitting up a little bit, you can see that it’s a floorboard, just sticking out a little bit. Oh! Guess that’s what you tripped over earlier. You try and press it back down with your foot, and that definitely doesn't work. Damn. Hopefully, you could find a hammer or something to tack it back down. You scoot over to get a better look when you notice that there’s something underneath, a dark blue color just faintly catching your eye. Curious, you lift the board a little, and after a tug or two, it gives way.

    You find an old, leatherbound book underneath. It’s got no clear name on the cover or the spine, simply a rune or emblem of sorts burned into the upper left corner. Finding it a bit strange, you flip open the cover, thinking that it must be a diary or something left by the original owners as a time capsule of sorts- but it’s not. Every page in the book is blank except for the very last one. This book is not what it has been. When the Veil strains thin will the ink be seen.

    Weird, but okay. You assume it’s a novelty or a trick or something, but it looks spooky enough, so you gently set it in one of the more empty boxes of Halloween decorations. Now it was time for the hard part.

    You drag one box at a time to the ladder, and looking at the size of them vs. the skinny steps below you, you wonder just how the hell Aunt Maude got these up here in the first place. Just thinking about getting these downstairs is intimidating, but you were never a quitter. One by one, you carefully take each box down, making sure to never carry more than you can handle and to keep a good grip on the ladder no matter what. After about 20 minutes, you get about halfway through. Four boxes down, four to go. Your arms are getting a bit tired and you’re a bit sweaty from the lack of AC in the attic, but you think you’ve got it. 

     On the fifth box of decorations, your foot slips. You gasp in shock, your stomach flipping as you fall backward- a split second of absolute terror as you fall. You’re terrified that you’re gonna die, and that Jean will never forgive you and you’d never get to throw that stupid party you were doing all this work for in the first place. 

    The air is knocked from your lungs from something that felt much more like a catch than it did the floor. You don't know what’s going on for a moment, eyes shut tight as the shock begins to wear off and you realize that you’re fine… Wait. Hold on. Someone had definitely caught you, and unless Jean had snuck in…

    To be honest, whatever you were expecting when you opened your eyes was very, very much wrong. Your heart is beating a million times a minute, a chill running through you when you finally register who is above you. Or what, rather. The first thing you see are his eyes. Yellow from pupil to scelera, almost glowing in the low light of the billiards room. He’s more fuzz than skin, blue in color, with devilishly sharp canine teeth he reveals with a sheepish smile.

    “Hallo?”

    He flinches when you shriek, doing his best not to drop you as you squirm out of his arms. Your knees give out the moment your feet hit the floor, and you scramble back, grabbing the first box you can and throwing anything you can find at him. 

    “Sorry- Sorry! I had not mean to scare you!” He holds his arms up to block each decoration you throw at him. A few plastic spiders, a zip lock of polyester faux webbing, and a little floral crow or two. You can hardly even think at the moment.

    “Stop! Please stop! I didn't want to let you fall!” He flinches at each item although none of them are very heavy. You’re running out of things to throw, stalling for a moment as you debate lunging for one of the other boxes.

    “WHAT ARE YOU?!” You shriek again.  He opens his mouth to speak as he takes a step back, and you flinch as you see something move in the corner of your eye- a tail. A spaded fucking demon tail. You had to be losing it. Having hallucinations or a nightmare or something- but as it turns out, you are definitely a fight-over-freeze kind of person, and your body kicks in before your brain has caught up. The box of bones was next to go. A hand, and then two small rib cages and a slightly heavy bundle of newspaper fly through the air.

     “Careful!” He flat-out ignores the other items, going wide-eyed at the ball of newspaper and lunging to catch it in time. He takes an audible sigh of relief when he does, and says something that makes you pause from pelting him with any more Halloween shit.

    “You’re certainly Maude’s kin, but I doubt she’d appreciate you throwing her breakables.” He halfheartedly jokes, an awkward smile on his face. You’re mid-throw with another bone, hand frozen in the air with a range of emotions going on in your head.

    “Excuse me?” You ask, possibly a little overdramatic at the moment. He goes to move, probably to set the wad of newspaper down, but you raise your hand again as if to throw, making a face at him that’s a little more goofy than it was intimidating. He hands the newspaper off to his tail, raising his hands to show that he means no harm.

    “Maude? The woman who lived here before?”

    “Yeah, I got that part!” You cry out, hands shaking a bit from adrenaline. “How do you know my Aunt Maude? And what are you!? Why are you here!?” The rapid-fire questions seem to interrupt him every time he opens his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to lose his patience with you. He very calmly places the wad of newspaper on top of a box that happens to be near, and you eye him suspiciously as he does. He sits down next to it, the tip of his tail swaying just slightly.

    “Maybe we should take a step back, Ja? I can explain everything, I promise.” He says, patting the space next to him. “Herkommen. It might be better to sit for this.” His smile is polite, and if this situation were any different, you might find his kind demeanor charming. But the situation isn’t different. He was a stranger in your house. A blue, possible-demon stranger, with a tail and what you think looks like small, pointed horns sticking out from the thick curls that cover his hairline. You eye him suspiciously, halfway wondering if this was a trick of sorts. He’s looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to sit. Eventually, you do, but not next to him, definitely not. You sit down right where you are, hesitant and fidgety as he begins to speak.

    Of course, it would be your Aunt to summon a demon to aid her with her ridiculous (lovely) house in her failing health, instead of hiring a fucking nurse, or an assistant, or just selling the damn thing. Of course, it would be your Aunt to leave you the house with said demon in it, and not tell you. OF COURSE, It would be your aunt to tell him to take it slow while introducing himself so he wouldn't freak you out, and OF-FREAKING-COURSE, it would be you who almost killed yourself on accident and completely derail that plan. Jesus, what was worse? The fact that your aunt was apparently an actual witch who summoned demons in her elderly years, or that she didn’t explain any of this to you before leaving you the house. You didn't know how to unpack all of this, hell, you weren’t even done unpacking all of your things. 

    Well, It’s not like you could (or would) kick him out really, but in the coming weeks, you notice that Kurt is really more of a butler than a roommate.

    He’s been cleaning even before you knew he existed, but now that the grand reveal was over, you see him around the house much more often. He helps you with groceries, cooks for you when you’re exhausted, he takes the trash out sometimes too, when the sun goes down. He doesn’t go outside in the front yard very much to avoid being seen, but every once in a while, he’ll take a walk with you in the backyard. You were hesitant of him for a good bit, but you’d be a liar if you said he didn’t have a way of worming his way into your good graces. He’s… sweet. And easy to get along with. He effortlessly fits into your life, and you find yourself excited to see him when you wake up every day. You get along so well that it makes you wonder if your aunt had known that you would when she summoned him, or… you know what, probably not. 

    You learn more about him as the weeks go by. His past, his hopes for the future. You learn that his father is a demon lord of some sort, and his mothers are a bit more complicated. All three are dangerous, and all three are trying to find him. 

    “Is that why you took the pact with my Aunt?” You ask, late one night. Both of you have drinks in hand, leaning back on a pile of pillows and cushions you found in the tower room. It’s comfortable, if a bit warm. The two of you are a little flushed, words surprisingly clear as you speak. Despite being a demon, you find that Kurt is a bit of a lightweight. An accident on your part, having poured the drinks a little stronger thinking that he had a bit more tolerance. 

    “Mostly.” Kurt hums. He’s fully leaning against you, head resting snugly against your own with his tail curled around your abdomen. His horns are resting against your temple in a rather uncomfortable manner, but you don’t mention it. He takes another drink.

    “I don’t know how she knew. Or if she knew, really. Magic is specific to each demon, like a fingerprint of sorts, just a bit easier to track. When a demon makes a pact, their magic is filtered through the pact-bearer- which creates a different kind of magic. I needed a place to hide, she was offering me a home. It was easy.” His words slur a little where his accent tends to come out a bit stronger.

    “Was that all she offered you? A place to stay?”

    “That and…” He trails off for a quick moment, clearing his throat to change the subject. “Well, anyway. I was desperate, and she seemed kind, so I agreed.” You nod as you think it over yourself. You can’t tell if he’s just drunk or it's a sensitive subject, but he can’t just have accepted the many tasks of cleaning and caring for an old woman for something less in return. Was it that easy for demons to make pacts like that? Surely, she wouldn’t have offered him her soul or anything.

    You open your mouth to ask him more questions, but when a light snore reaches your ears, you know he’s fallen asleep. You can't help but smile, a warmth in your chest that you don’t really think is from the alcohol.

    A few days later, it’s Saturday, October 31st. After some long weekends and late nights, you finally have the whole house decorated, inside and out! You were so beyond excited. The whole place looked like it had come straight out of a Halloween catalog! You were so proud of how amazing it looked, but you could never have taken all the credit. Kurt was a big help, both with the placement and creativity of the many decorations. Everything that had to be put outside had to be done so at night so that Kurt wouldn’t be seen, and sure, sometimes you would wake up and see a few things were crooked, but at least it was fun! You’ve never felt so invigorated and filled with Halloween spirit, especially now, a few hours before the party. You’re shaking some full-sized candy bars into a big-ass plastic cauldron, and Kurt walks in with his arms full of Party favors for tonight.

    “You know, I’m not sure you could give away all of these if you tried!” Kurt laughs, setting them all down on the coffee table in the sitting room. It's a bunch of plastic spider rings, vampire teeth, squishy skeletons, slap bracelets, and more. All sorted into their own neat ziplock bags. The apartment complex you used to live at never really got any trick-or-treaters, so you had a lot of leftover goodies you were happy to finally use. You let out an excited giggle, taking one of the bags and emptying it into the cauldron. 

    “You’ll be surprised! With the neighborhood that’s just around the corner, I know for a fact that we’ll have plenty of kids come by!” You almost sing. Kurt smiles at you, taking a bag of his own to empty. 

    “Don’t get your hopes up, Schatz. It’s an old building, and rather scary from afar. Maude never really had a lot of visitors on Halloween.” You pout at his words, before tilting your head like you’re considering them as you continue to fill the cauldron. 

    “True, but Aunt Maude never tried posting on neighborhood Facebook groups and hyping up PTA moms before. Besides, the house is scary, but that's what the lights are for!” Kurt shakes his head, laughing as you voice the thought. You mayyy have gone overboard this year. A few extra strands of lights, blow-ups, and animatronics never hurt anybody, right? I mean, with most of your expenses taken care of due to the paid-off mansion you live in, you were able to spend a little bit more of your personal spending money on Halloween. Your new home was a whole-ass Halloween attraction, and a good bit of the neighborhood thought so too! After posting online, you were pleasantly surprised with the positive feedback from the surrounding neighborhoods, and had even personally met a few kind neighbors since!

    Kurt however, couldn’t risk being seen, and had to hide every time. Most people would freak out, just like you did, and the attention isn’t really a good thing for him. The thought sends you on the same spiral that you had been on for the past week, and the smile slowly slips off your face as Kurt takes the pot from you and begins to mix the goodies all together.

    “...You’re sure you don’t want to come tonight?” You ask, vulnerability shining through your voice. Kurt looks up from the task, brow furrowed. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then looks back down again.

    “I don’t want to scare anyone.” He says softly, making your frown deepen.

    “You won’t! I promise you won’t. None of my friends scare easily- and besides! It’s Halloween. Everyone will just think you’re in a costume!” You try to make the last bit of the plea happy and convincing, but it doesn’t seem to work very well. Kurt doesn’t look at you until he’s done with the pot, placing it back on the coffee table. When he does, his smile doesn’t seem to reach his eyes,

    “I’ll be fine, Schatz. I promise. It will be easier for me to just hide. I can easily enjoy the party from a distance.” The words aren’t very convincing, but before you can say anything else, the doorbell rings. Kurt dusts himself off as he stands, tail swaying as he pulls you to your feet. 

    “Looks like your guests are early. Make sure to have fun tonight, Ja? I’ll see you later.” Kurt squeezes your hands, and you try not to look too disappointed. After all, it was his decision, and you don’t want him to feel forced to show himself when so much could go wrong. You give him a moment to head back upstairs, disappearing like he used to do back in the beginning. You can’t help but sigh a little, but there’s a hesitant knock on the door instead of the doorbell this time, and you know you can’t just stand here and ignore it.

    You don’t really know who is going to be on the other side of the door, with it being mid-afternoon and still a hot minute before the party actually starts, but the bloody, red-haired Carrie on the other side of the door brightens your spirits the moment you see her.

    “Jean!” You cheer, rushing to give her a hug that she warmly returns.

    “Happy Halloween!” Jean says before pulling away. “I hope you don’t mind, I thought I’d come by a little early to help you set up.” 

    “Are you kidding? I have a whole ass kitchen of food I still need to plate.” You step aside to let Jean in as she laughs. You were originally to do most of the prep with Kurt, and although Jean is technically interrupting, you try not to let it get you down. This is the first time you’ve seen her in a long while, and you were already rather lucky that Halloween was falling on a Saturday this year- most of your friends/guests all working at the prep school nearby. 

    “Am I the first one here?” Jean asks as you lead her to the kitchen, and you hum in response.

    “Yup, It’s been just me all day.” You’ve never been the best liar, but you think you’re a little convincing at least. 

    “Funny, I could have sworn I heard a man’s voice when I rang the doorbell.” Jean’s smug tone almost makes you stop in place. If you were even a little convinced that some of this house was soundproof, those hopes were dashed instantly. You smile nervously, trying to play it off as you pass the sitting room, the TV giving you an idea.

    “Whaaaattt? No. I mean- I’ve had the TV in the sitting room running all day, so maybe that’s what you heard.” You say, trying to wave her off. Unfortunately, Jean had the ungodly ability to pick up your anxiety like a goddamn bloodhound.

    “Really? There’s not some mystery boyfriend you’re not telling me about?” Jean teases. You get stiff and quiet immediately, biting your lip as you reach the kitchen. She takes the silence as an affirmative answer, and she’s not exactly far off. Jean cocks an eyebrow at your nervous stance, chuckling at the sweat that practically beads at your brow. You try to hide the flush of your cheeks by busying yourself with setting out different snack foods to organize and avoiding her eyes, but it doesn’t work. 

    “Oh come on, I’m not blind. You’re over there blushing like a student. Who’s the lucky guy?” Jean asks, helping you with the task. You begin to open a back of chips, looking away from Jean’s knowing gaze.

    “I- We’re- We’re not really a thing. He’s just a friend.” You say, heart thundering in your chest as you pray Kurt isn’t lurking nearby. You’re struggling with the bag still, and Jean holds her hands out as an offer. You hand it to her without a second thought, and she opens the bag easily.

    “And is this friend coming to the party tonight?” She asks. You stall for a moment. All you can hear are the soft clinks of the chips hitting the inside of one of the bowls you had set out. You’re not quite sure what to say to that, or even if you had anything to say. Your hesitance makes her frown, looking up at you cautiously. When she puts the bag back down, she reaches out to take your hand. 

    “Well, if he does stop by, I’ll be glad to meet him.” Her tone is reassuring, and you muster a small smile for her. Tonight was supposed to be fun, so you’d do your best to enjoy it.

    The night goes by busier than you ever would have expected. Everyone comes dressed to the absolute nines in their costumes, and although a few were lacking in imagination in your opinion- Logan specifically- everyone looked amazing. You quickly realize that It’s harder to be a good hostess in this big ass house than you would think. Between the food, trying to catch up with friends, and the doorbell constantly ringing with practically a line down your driveway of more trick-or-treaters than you’ve ever seen, you were constantly busy. Lucky for you, you had good people around you. Logan and Scott thankfully took over cooking hamburgers and hotdogs- and Jean promised to keep them from butting heads. Ororo and Xavier happily volunteered to hand out the candy when you couldn’t, and you had Jubilee to count on when it came to the music. The house was busy, people were smiling, and overall, everything was going really well. 

    The only downside was that you hadn’t seen Kurt since Jean arrived. Sure, it was busy, but every time you managed to pry yourself away from the crowd and look for him in his usual hidey-spots, you never found him. He’s good at being sneaky, I mean he has to be, right? Being blue and all, but his consistent absence makes you a little nervous. He’s probably just being extra cautious, and you can’t blame him for that.

    After a few drinks have been had, spirits are high, and some different party games you had planned were finished, it was time to vote for best costume. Almost everyone had gone outside, enjoying the yard and the house in all its festive glory, but you stayed inside to count the votes. Kitty and Illiyana had volunteered to help you, and it takes a surprising amount of time to count the various strips of colored construction paper. In the end, it seems like it was really more of a “most ridiculous” costume contest instead. Jubilee, dressed as the one in only Kool-aide-man in the biggest plastic fishbowl you’d ever seen, won best costume by a single point, with Kevin’s fantastic costume of Professor Xavier himself a single point behind. You try your best not to laugh, knowing that they are not going to be too happy about that. You had bought a light up-sash and a plastic crown for the winner, stopping to grab them before stepping outside to try and find the teen. 

    Somehow, you can’t find her. I mean, You think it would be easy to find a huge red bowl with a face on it, but she’s not outside at all. When you ask Hank, he says he’s pretty sure she went back inside, so inside you go. You’re starting to get a little anxious at this point, not finding her on the first, or second floor. The third floor is completely dark, aside from the colorful light coming from the windows. You call out her name with no response, and then thinking that Kurt may have seen her, you call out his name next. Nothing. He’s never done that before. Sure, there was a lot going on, but normally he’d at least try to answer you. You creep from door to door upstairs, without any luck, when a muffled sound from the tower room falls on your ears. It makes you pause for a moment. It might be nothing, but you remember telling Jubilee about the room earlier, so you figure it wouldn’t hurt to check.

    You’re hesitant, but then there's another muffled cry, and this time, you know it’s him. You slowly creep up over to the door, and then up the stairs to the room. Minutes feel like hours, and when you finally get there, you find Kurt, on his knees and doubled over in pain with his hands pressed to his chest.

    “Oh my god, Kurt!” You cry out, running over to him. His face is scrunched up in a wince, his eyes shooting open when you try to help him sit up. 

     “No, no- You can't be here- You need to go,” Kurt’s voice comes out between heaving breaths. Your hands are shaking, panicked as you spot the blood seeping through his shirt. He hisses in pain when you touch the spot, as if he’s been burned, and when his hands quickly tug your wrist away- his neckline shifts. There’s a brand over his heart. Etched into him as if it were carved with a scalpel.

    “What happened? What's happening?” The words come out faster than your brain can catch up. His nails are elongated, razor-sharp points almost digging into the skin of your wrist as hold hold shifts. The brand glows as another wave of pain washes over him. Those small points that normally hide in his curly hair have grown, too. His horns sweep over his head, prominent and black at the very tips. He cries out, slumping forward onto your shoulder as the pain passes.

    “You need to go. Bitte- I need you to leave.” Kurt almost whimpers, practically limp against you as he tries to catch his breath. “It’s Azazel, my Vater. He’s found me. He’s using the brand to track me down. It’s too dangerous for you to be here.” He stiffens as another wave of pain hits him, and you do your best to keep upright. There’s so much running through your head, concern, confusion. You don't know how to help him besides holding up up and it's killing you to see him like this.

    “I don’t understand- I thought he couldn’t find you unless you used magic?” Kurt looks ashamed when you ask the question, tucking his head further into your shoulder. It's only then that you actually take a look at the room around you. There's an open book on the ground, runes and lettering you don't understand scatter the pages, along with a diagram of a devil that seemingly shifts into something more human and back at every shift of your eye. When you see the worn cover, you recognize it as the book beneath the floorboards- and you finally understand that it's a spellbook.

    “I… I wanted to join you.” Kurt whispers, unable to look you in the eye. “My Mutter was skilled in transmutation so I…” He trails off, shaking his head and wincing when another sharp pain shoots through him.

    “It was stupid. I’m sorry. I should never have touched it without a pact.”

    “If you make one now, will the brand disappear?” 

    Kurt visibly pauses. Sitting up as best he can to get a look at your face. You're still panicking, but overall you feel mortified. Ashamed. Did you do this? Were you so instant that he came tonight that he would risk everything just to do so? What was wrong with you- and why on God's green earth would he actually try to go through with it? You're beginning to tear up, swallowing down your thoughts as you offer the only thing you can think of. Kurt doesn't answer you at first, his yellow eyes wide with shock as he stares at you. 

    “If you make a new pact, will you be able to dispel the tracker?” You repeat, trying so hard to seem confident and self-assured through your shaky voice. Kurt’s face shifts into something you can't quite place, and he shakes his head.

    “I can’t ask that of you-”

    “Kurt, just answer me!” You’re too stubborn to let it go. A trait that you and Maude often shared. Kurt takes your hands into his own, squeezing them, and shakes his head. He's insistent in his own right, conveying his worry and fears- not for his own future, but yours.

    “This isn’t the way you want to gain a pact! Maude had made preparations. She had charms and protections and rules in place! There’s no time for us to do the same. If you make a pact with me now with nothing? It would bind your soul to mine for eternity. You would have no rest, no peace- no Heaven. I won’t-”

    “I love you!” Kurt sucks in a sharp breath at your exclamation. Tears have started to roll down your face no matter how hard you were trying to blink them away. 

    “I don’t care about eternity, or rest- or any of that. I love you. Fuck- I know I haven’t even known you three months- I just…” You trail off, looking away from him in embarrassment that all of this had to come out in such bullshit circumstances.

    “Please just make the pact.”

    Kurt’s eyes soften, almost scanning your own as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re telling the truth. He uses the back of his hand to wipe the tears from your face, careful of his claws, and then suddenly, he kisses you. It’s easy for you to melt into his desperate kiss, a hand coming up to cup his face as he pulls you closer with his tail. The strong limb pulls you into a straddle across his lap as he takes your free hand in his own. When he breaks the kiss, he does so with a mumbled apology as he takes your free hand. You feel a sudden stinging pain as a careful claw slices across your palm, and he apologizes again as he presses it over his heart, directly against the bleeding brand. Both of you hiss at the sudden, blinding pain as his hand continues to press your palm tightly to the wound.

    There’s an energy that begins to fill your body, like an electric current that links the two of you together. Your skin is buzzing, your head spinning as you fall against his shoulder in a mirror of his own position earlier. Kurt’s new claws dig into his own skin, and he grits his teeth as the pain from the brand grows more and more- before everything stops.

    You wish you could say there was some spark, or spoken words, or something, but it all ends almost anti-climatically. Everything stops. Everything is quiet- almost too quiet. Whatever vertigo you are feeling begins to wear off, and when you feel like you can finally lift your head, you look at Kurt.

    He’s smiling at you, horns reduced, fingernails shortened, with your hand still pressed over his heart- the brand gone and the skin healed on both of you

    “Is it over?”

    “It’s over.” He confirms, and you sigh in relief, pressing your forehead against his own. Kurt doesn't take long before he’s pressing kisses all over your face, holding you still as you giggle and squirm. You know there’s more to be said between you, but it’s been one hell of a night, and right now you’re enjoying the comfortable silence between Kurt’s fluttering kisses- until someone calls your name from the tower stairs.

    “Hey, You in there?” Jean’s voice echoes through the space, and you sit straight up, heart given a jumpstart as Jean comes into view- you don’t have time to move before she gets there.

    “You’ll never guess where we found Jube���.” She trails off when she sees you and Kurt. “Oh?” Your face is as red as it can get, panic shooting through you at the realization that she’s seen the actual demon living in your home. All he does though is smile and wave, although a bit nervously. Jean raises an eyebrow, beginning to smile just as you realize the position the two of you are in.

    “Nice costume,” Jean says, and after a moment of confusion, you realize she’s talking to Kurt. Kurt looks relieved, shoulders relaxing underneath you, and you clear your throat.

    “Jean, this is Kurt.” 

    The air settles in the Tower room once it’s empty, the sound of the party downstairs is muffled through the floorboards, but still present nonetheless. There’s almost a giggle in the air, and the book flips from page to page before it closes shut, and the ink fades as the grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway strikes midnight. A pact is completed, and the energy in the air begins to fade. After all, a soul can’t leave the mortal plane until its final business has been finished, and Maude had not promised her own soul to the friendly blue devil, but no one said she couldn’t offer something else- a soulmate. 

[rimunagenius]

Only Angel — K.M

❝ words : 1.5k ❞

❝ warnings : RPF!! , suggestive , body worship , jealous!Kate , fwb theme ❞ (dk if i forgot anything, if i did lmk!)

❝ rimunagenius speaks : sorry this took a literal fortnite to complete LMAO (pls idek if this good :// )…anyways i have summer school bc o my fuck ass chem teacher soooo lowk might take a while to put other stuff out but i’ll try i promise!! ❞

| Women’s Basketball Masterlist |

I saw this angel

I really saw an angel

Kate noticed you on the baseline at every single one of your home games. Your black and gold cheer uniform fitting you insanely perfect. Your short skirt and your form fitting top. You looked so pretty, so beautiful, so angelic, you were truly a distraction sometimes. The way you moved hypnotizing her whenever she wasn't focused on her team. 

Open up your eyes, shut your mouth and see

That I'm still the only one who's been in love with me

I'm just happy getting you stuck in between my teeth

And there's nothing I can do about it

It took about five months of dancing around the physical attraction you both had towards the other before making what was happening between you two something. You both had amazing futures set out for you, establishing yourselves in your sports. You were on track to become a professional cheerleader, NFL cheerteams already inviting you to camps. 

Kate was optimistic that she'd become a prospect in the upcoming draft. Deciding to continue to put all he focus into basketball. So why on earth were you both suddenly trying to pursue something that could be nuclear to your careers. 

Kate had been buried between your legs for the better part of an hour. "Oh my god, Kate. I love you." The initial shock in the declaration immediately set a new tone in the atmosphere that you two had spent months building up. 

Her lips paused the attack on you, eliciting a small sigh from your lips, now accepting the consequences of your own actions. "Im sorry, what?" There was no denying the cultivation of feelings you two began to nurse. There was no point in lying to herself that she didn't feel the same way. 

"Forget it, just please, don't stop." You squirmed under her gaze. Now growing increasingly uncomfortable with the look she seemed to be giving you, and now uncomfortable with the abrupt confession. 

"You know that I can't just drop basketball." She sighed, her forefingers pinching the bridge of her nose. The frustration that immediately began to build within your chest, at her action of dismissing your confession. 

"Alright, whatever. Forget about it, didn't mean it anyways." You sighed heavily, suggestively spreading your legs, signalling her to continue, foregoing any act of bashfullness and self preservation you had to give. 

"No, because we had this conversation. I need to focus on basketball right now. Not to sound rude but you're not in the picture yet. I'm pretty sure I'm not even in the picture for you're life right now." The short tone she took with you was something almost foreign. 

You didn't like the tone, rolling your eyes at her. Suddenly the small smirk you grew accustomed to in this scene, inching it's way onto her face. So over the awkwardness but totally enthralled by the way she manages to manipulate the situation to make  it seem less harsh than it really is, annoys you. She’s so good at making you forget about why you were mad at her when she has that look on her face. Chuckling softly, looking away to your left, you grabbed her blonde hair at the back of her head and shoved her head back down where you both were needing. 

The slight aggression and dominance you took elicited a gravel moan from the depths of her throat. The reverberation could be felt everywhere. You guys just couldn't help but feel the way you felt for each other. 

Broke a finger knocking on your bedroom door

I got splinters in my knuckles crawling across the floor

Couldn't you take home to mother in a skirt that short

But I think that's what I like about it

Kate didn't know what it was but the feeling brewing in her chest from the sight of you with another girl had her on a whole new level. You guys never put a label on what it was between the both of you. You guys just had a common ground.

Thats why she didn't know why she was pounding the living shit our of your door at two in the morning. Team outing at a local bar in Iowa City, invite extended to you from your mutual friends, turned into you leaving with another girl. She was your friend, deciding you were tired of your shoes, opting to go home and drink your own beer without people bothering you and asking if you two were single. Seemed like the most optimal solution. Until you realized that the pounding on your door signaled you forgot to tell Kate. 

Kate had felt the anger and anxiety build up in her the longer her fist repeatedly connected with the wooden door of your apartment. The dread of finding another girl in the apartment where she thought only you two seemed to find yourself in more often then not was unsettling. Mainly because she thought this was going somewhere but you just called it casual. She had you. 

"Jesus Christ, Kate. It's two in the morning, what the fuck are you doing?" You looked at her perplexed, the cold breeze hitting you from the hallway. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the crop top and the short sleep shorts you made yourself comfortable in now suddenly sounding like the worst idea. 

"Who did you leave with?" Is she fucking serious right now? You looked at her like she had suddenly grown two more heads. 

"Are you serious? That's why you came banging on my door at two in the fucking morning? Because you wanted to know who I left the bar with?" The animosity in your voice growing as she continued to keep the straight face she had since you opened the door, but moved on her feet in anticipation. 

"Yeah. Was she a friend or...?" You genuinely laughed at the way she was acting. Two nights ago you had confessed that you loved her accidentally, but truthfully, and all she could say was you weren't what she envisioned herself with in the future. Atleast not yet. So you both decided to continue doing what you have been for the last two months. 

"Like you care?" You scoffed, walking away from the door, letting her in. She closed the door behind her, kicking her shoes off, and hanging her jacket up on the hook next to yours. You walked through the whole apartment, knowing she’d follow. She did. You didn't say a single thing but just look at her while she saw no girl had been in your apartment. 

"She was my friend, Kate. She was in one of my classes and we came here for and she only stayed for like twenty minutes before she walked to her floor." You now stood in the middle of your room, a room Kate had been all too familiar with. 

"That's it?" Kate's brows raised, her body inching closer to yours. 

"Yes. I'm not easy you know." You rolled her eyes, unintentionally getting a rise out of Kate. For some reason she seemed to like when you had an attitude with her. "Don't even think about it, Kate." You looked at her, the knowing gaze her eyes held that your eyes were trained to remember. 

"Why not? You’re always easy for me." Her voice dropping and becoming faint as she slowly reached one hand to your waist. She knew you’d let her have her way. You always did. You were just equally as dirty and needy for Kate as she was for you. She couldn’t take you anywhere…she loved it. She got to have you in private any way she wanted.

"You're seriously asking that after you just stormed into my apartment thinking I was sleeping with another woman when that wasn't the deal we made. The lack of boundaries you seem to have." You sighed as her other hand connected with your waist, pulling you into her chest while her lips started their attack on your neck. 

"Mhm." She hummed softly, planting an open mouthed kiss right below your ear. 

"Kate, are you serious?" You were genuinely shocked that she just forewent her previous accusation against you, and suddenly thinks she'll get lucky tonight. It was slowly working, dammit.

"Why are you still talking, baby?" Her hands on your waist slipped underneath the hem of your crop top, her cold, ringclad fingers, slowly traveling the familiar path that brought her so much pleasure. Her eyes now looking into yours, she smiled before looking at your lips. 

Who were you to resist her when she looked this good? You probably should have but there was no going back after you connected your lips. It didn't take more than two seconds to have her slowly backing you up against the side of your bed, making you fall onto your back. 

You inched your way towards the headboard, you resting neatly on the pillows as you watched her discard her shirt. She got onto the bed, working her way from you bare legs, all the way up your stomach. The way she crawled slowly above you, ravishing you before she intended to tear you apart was so sultry and almost cinematic that you couldn't even breathe. 

Later on, the talk needed to be had. You both would have to unanimously decide to commit to one another. There was nothing casual about the way her lips traveled to every part of your body, with small chants of appraisal leaving her lips, ghosting your skin with goosebumps in their wake...nothing casual about it. 

"You're like an actual angel, baby. Can't get enough of you." Her lips barely articulated the words that she desperately needed to get off her chest, as they tried to kiss you everywhere all at once. You almost didn't catch it when she kissed up the apex of your thighs, mumbling 'mine' over and over again. 

In her eyes, you were literally an angel, needing to be worshipped.

She's an angel

My only angel

[gemissleeping]

Sea Foam | Chapter Two

Theodore Nott x Siren!Reader

Read Chapter One here.

Summary: After almost pulling him to the bottom of the Black Lake the night prior, Theodore Nott can’t keep his mind off of you. But you worry things aren’t all that they may seem to him.

Length: 2.7k

Notes: More brash (kind of dark) Theo. Angst. Not smutty just saucy. Not very pc comment about drugs/addiction (but it’s a UK high school in the 90s so… real). Featuring Blaise & Milli the peak friend duo. Sprinkle of hurt/comfort if you squint. Thanks for reading, love you guys <3

When you pulled yourself from the depths of the lake an hour before sunrise, the shoreline was empty and he was gone. You could barely remember anything save for a string of flashes; his lips on yours, hands hungry for each other as you had tangled yourself in him. How you were supposed to face him in the halls today, you didn’t know. You hauled yourself onto some rocks outside of the castle’s view. A tremor running through you like a gentle current, as it always did the next day. Evasion, you eventually settled on, would be your best hope. At least until you decided what you were going to do.

An hour or so later, you were making your way towards the Great Hall. The salt licked curls of your hair the only evidence that last night might’ve happened at all. Only a few students sat, littered across their House tables. The early morning sun was casting patterns through the windows, most students likely still in the middle of their dreams.

Theo would be running Quidditch practice around now, so you wouldn’t have to fret the possibility of your paths crossing. Unfortunately, that also meant you’d have to leave before Milli and Blaise got back from practice too.

Lifting your teacup with unsteady fingers, you sat at the Slytherin table, flipping through The Daily Profit without really taking any of it in. Students slowly piling in with heavy eyes, soft yawns and hushed chatter. Filling the Great Hall until the sound rose to a low, inviting hum.

You took a hesitant bite of some plain toast, never feeling that you could stomach much after a full moon. Your attempt was soured quickly, the toast going down the way you imagined gravel might. Deciding you couldn’t eat anything more, you folded over the paper, going to stand just as a hand clamped down on your shoulder with far too much energy for the current hour.

“Alright Darling?” Blaise Zabini’s melodic voice rang out as he stepped over the bench. Taking a seat beside you with a shit eating grin.

“She’s still waking up Blaise, be nice.” Milli scolded as she sat across from you, her freckled cheeks undoubtedly blushed from the morning air.

“From those dark circles I’m not sure she slept at all.” Blaise quipped, stealing the toast from your plate as you sighed, unimpressed. “You and Nott are two of a kind this morning,” he added, demolishing half of the toast in a single bite as you stilled.

Nausea licked at your stomach, trying to crawl it’s way up. You went to speak, but your voice was lost for a moment as you caught sight of a set of sleep torn, dark blue eyes. They’d cut through the sea of students, found you even from the doorway. You swallowed, flicking open the newspaper on the table again and tearing your eyes away as you cleared your throat.

“What do you mean?” You asked, trying not to appear overly nervous as you glanced over at Milli, who was practically trying to live inside of her coffee mug.

“Looks like he was dragged through a bush backwards,” she echoed into her cup. Only taking a momentary break to answer your question before going back to drowning in her coffee. Panic flickered through your chest as you took another precarious sip of tea, a headache was forming now.

Against your will, you felt your eyes sweep across the gathered students at the Slytherin table. Locking straight onto those same tired eyes as Theo took a seat further down the table. Already looking at you from beside Matt and Enzo. Barely listening to a word either of them were saying as he watched you with an unreadable expression. You felt yourself inhale harshly before dragging yourself away from him. Doing your best to push him to the bottom of your mind as you tuned back into your friends.

“Understatement of the century,” Blaise chimed, polishing off the toast. “Whichever girl of his he shagged last night has him proper messed. Could barely even run drills this morning.” You almost choked on your tea at Blaise’s comment.

“Blaise,” Milli sighed, dropping her empty cup to the table, “you have absolutely no decorum.”

“Which is exactly why you keep me around,” Blaise grinned, pointing at her with his fork. “How else would you two get any of the gossip?”

Milli shook her head fondly as you managed to put on a small smile. Pushing your hands towards the teapot to refill your cup, very aware that Theo was still transfixed on you.

“Jesus, you’re shaking like the smack addict my Mum dated in Third Year.” Blaise crowed as you lifted your magically filled cup, barely managing to keep the tea inside of it. “Anyway enough about Theo’s ugly mug. I’ll get it out of him in Divination.”

“Rather out of character for your Mother.” Milli frowned curiously over her eggs, distracted.

“Well, you know how it goes. His wallet was heavy,” Blaise stated simply, peering over at you with discernment before turning back to Milli for a moment, “good smack’s expensive you know.”

“I don’t.” She glowered.

“Well now you do.” Blaise was looking at you sideways again. He was, unfortunately, even more perceptive than most people believed.

“And what of your Mum’s smacked up ex lovers - dead now I’m assuming?” Milli chimed from across the table. You felt Blaise’s calculating eyes leave you, utterly unamused as he turned his attention to her.

“And you say I have no decorum.”

“Neither of you should throw stones in glass houses,” you murmured, lips against your teacup as you blinked tiredly between your two friends.

“She speaks,” Blaise smiled, a slither of his concern seeming to melt away. Your friends were admittedly idiots, but they both cared for you deeply.

“Seriously though,” Milli spoke up across from you both, “are you alright? You got in after me last night.”

“Fine, just getting my ass handed to me in Potions this year.” The pair shared a glance, but neither pressed further.

The rest of the day had been long, leaving you bone-tired. Through all of the classes you had shared, you could feel Theo stealing glances at you. Perhaps he was angry, or merely curious, confused even. But it did nothing to ease the guilt and embarrassment that was rising through you. It wasn’t until Potions last period when Matt started laughing suddenly from beside him that a thought dawned on you.

You felt like a fool for not having got to it sooner, though you hadn’t exactly been clear headed today. Especially not with this headache, which had only grown. Occasionally gracing you with unwelcome fragments of last night in the middle of your Professors’ lecturing. Yet it hadn’t occurred to you until now; what if Theo told someone about last night?

You’d known him, all of the Slytherins, since you were little. In passing mostly at Galas and Dinners, but you’d never been overly close. Who was to say that he wouldn’t? Your Father had gone to every length to keep your ailment hidden, it was an embarrassment to him. In his eyes you were the worst kind of half-blood, a reminder of his weakness. It couldn’t get out, it would ruin him, ruin you.

You knew what that meant, what you had to do. Whether you could bring yourself to was something else entirely. It was while you were making your way to the Common Room after Potions, thinking about how you would do it. Brow creased with the weight of it all, when a low, strained voice spoke from behind you.

“That’s not fair.”

You turned back in surprise to see Theo at the far end of the hall. His chest rising and falling rapidly, tie loosened as he ran his hand along his jaw. The sight of him sending a wave of memories through your mind as you began to feel unsteady.

Blaise and Milli had been right. While you’d been avoiding so much as breathing in his direction all day, you hadn’t looked at him, not properly. He looked as though he hadn’t slept at all, the undersides of his eyes practically bruised from the lack of rest.

You felt yourself frowning softly as you tried to make sense of his words, choking on your own. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not fair. If you get to remember, and I have to forget.” He called back with a quiet anger, watching intently. Searching your eyes for something. You froze, locked on him in shock as the realisation slowly swept you.

He knew you had been thinking of obliviating him.

“You’re the reason I’ve had a headache all day.” You murmured, eyes widening with the gravity of Theo’s invasion dawning on you. He walked towards you carefully, like he couldn’t help himself.

“And you’re the reason I can’t think of anything. Except for-“

His eyes fell to your lips.

You knew you should go, turn and walk away. But as he approached, you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Completely stuck under his gaze. Distracted by the way his dark curls caught the fleeting light, the shadow against the slope of his nose. You saw him smile as he read you for filth, flitting through your head with ease. Your breath caught as you slammed him out, cheeks flushed.

“You’ve been using legilimency on me?” You seethed in a hush.

“I have,” he admitted, eyes darkening, “and you almost drowned me in the Black Lake. So I guess we’re both bad people.”

He took a step closer to you, and then another. Until he was so unbearably close that you were forced to look up at him. Theo was already watching you, gaze darting between your lips and your eyes as if he had no control over any of it.

“You should’ve listened to me when I told you to go,” you whispered, your own eyes falling to his lips before flickering back to his, cheeks still running warm.

You could feel your chest hammering, breath picking up. Flashes of the night prior came back to you in a flood and you broke away, taking a rushed step back from the tense stare of the boy before you. It had been him, all day it had been him, ever since breakfast.

“Stop doing that,” you gasped. Trying to shove him out of your mind again. But instead your back hit the pillar behind you with enough force to dash the air from your lungs. He closed in.

“Not until you talk to me,” Theo breathed. Eyes trailing lazily across your features in pursuit of something.

You only shook your head, unable to break the gaze he was holding. “We need to stay away from each other.”

But you didn’t mean it, he could hear it. An unbecoming frown pulled him closer to you until you were only a breath away. Theo tilted his head, as though he was failing at unraveling your mind this time. His hand raised, fingertips hesitating towards the exposed skin of your neck.

You knew better than this, knew that you should push him away the way you had last night. Knew that it wasn’t real. But when his fingers brushed so barely across your skin, dancing their way up to your jaw, all rational thought left you.

“I don’t know if I can do that.” He murmured, his face dangerously close to yours.

You faltered as his thumb drew deliberate soft circles across the arch of your cheek. Eyes burning with shame as the guilt of last night clawed at you, “I could’ve killed you.”

“But you didn’t.” Theo muttered, his other hand circling the loose sleeve of your shirt. Fingers brushing past it, pushing it up further as he explored. The rough callouses on his fingertips dancing along your arm as he continued to drown in your eyes. Thumb still running gently across your cheek. Until it faltered, a frown flickering across his features.

Trailing across the skin of your forearms, were a string of welts; left by the snaring kelp you had buried yourself in. His eyes softened as his fingers left your cheek, gently pulling the sleeve of your shirt higher with a frown.

You flinched, pulling your arm back to your side. The burning sensation ripping you into reality once again. “Believe me, I tried.”

“What can I do?” He asked, far more softly than you had ever heard him speak. “I want to help you.”

Your eyes stung, wishing that for even a moment you could let yourself believe him. But the truth was that you couldn’t afford to take that chance. You’d had no one to guide you through this after your Mother had left, no clue as to how any of it worked. No textbook had ever helped you, the sirens you found in their pages weren’t like you.

You were alone in this, and you couldn’t let yourself do this to him on the off chance that maybe it was real. Of his own volition and not drawn from him by whatever you had done to him under the full moon. You glanced back up to him as the sun sank through the stained glass windows of the empty hall.

“It’s not real, Theo. The way you feel is a, a reaction,” you could hear the crack in your voice as you sank away from him, “It will pass.”

Theo’s eyes darkened as he took a step back, hurt clouding him. The last of the sun’s warmth leaching from the air as night began to set in.

“Stop,” he breathed as his eyes found the floor, “stop doing that. You keep lying and forgetting that I can hear you.”

“Do you think this is normal?” You pleaded with him, wishing for nothing more than to make him see reason. “I almost killed you.”

“But you didn’t-“

“I wanted to,” you snapped suddenly, your voice cutting through his as pain bloomed in him from your words. “I wanted to,” you said again, softening. “Any second longer and I-“ your eyes fluttered, blinking back tears, “I would have done it. It’s not real, Theo. It’s safer for both of us if we just-”

He wasted no time in cutting you off with his lips. Gently pressing them against yours, one hand tangling tenderly through your salty hair. The other at your jaw, fingertips trailing up to tuck some of the loose strands behind your ear. It was different to last night. Gentle, fragile even. You felt your lips part in a mess of surprise and fear at the sensation. It was all the invitation he needed.

He deepened the kiss, tilting your jaw back and eliciting an involuntary gasp from you. Swallowing the sound with the softness of his lips against yours. Hands running over your skin like he was trying to memories you. His fingers brushing through your hair one last time before he pulled back gently.

“You don’t feel that?” He breathed against you, hopeful eyes lingering as he cradled your face in his palms. But you couldn’t answer him without lying, without admitting that you felt it all too. So instead you avoided his question.

“Don’t you think it’s odd? When you never seemed to before?” You countered, desperately trying to shove whatever he had drawn out of you down. “Forgive me, perhaps I’m inexperienced, or naive. But I’m fairly certain that kind of thing doesn’t happen overnight.” You finished emptily, growing tired of your rising hope.

He straightened, his hand falling from your cheek. Brushing your shoulder before dropping to his side.

“You seem very certain that it did,” Theo conceded. Taking a step back from you, his eyes hardening as he swept your face.

“What?” You breathed, his face perfectly indifferent as he gazed at you, waiting.

“That I never felt that way before last night.” He clarified, narrowing in on you. You stayed like that for a moment, watching each other carefully. Eventually, you let your eyes sink to the floor. Hand coming up to smooth down your hair.

“I won’t ask you again.” You swallowed, brushing past him as the warmth drained from you. You didn’t have to say it, you could feel him on the outside. Begging you to let him through to your mind.

So you left it there like a note upon his doorstep; that you wanted to forget. Even if it wasn’t true

Read Chapter Three here

Taglist: @hemlockmuncher @hoeforvinniehackerrr @moonlightttfae @thecraziestcrayon @itssomeonereading @leona-hawthorne @liaaanie

[famwhy]

"You always were too smart..."

"...for your own good."

Scream 1996

Yandere! Billy Loomis X F!Reader

Synopsis: The Woodsboro massacre was a case that had been announced to be closed as soon as it was opened. The answer was obvious, right? There were two witnesses after all. Mr Prescott snapped, killed a bunch of kids, then shot himself in the head as a result of the nearing anniversary of his wife's death—two of your close friends confirmed it. Why, then, did you feel the need to meddle? Why couldn't you just mind your own goddamn business?!

Warnings: Mentions of death, Gore, Manipulation, Threat/Violence

"It just doesn't make any sense!"

None of it did. The witnesses, the evidence, the murders—it was just too big of a headache to deal with.

You didn't know why you were still doing it; still looking into this case even in the depths of midnight. It was closed, the chief said so himself—your two best friends were there, they saw what happened and recalled the events as such, their stories had even been perfectly aligned...

...almost too perfectly.

It was dumb—and you were probably being paranoid but—nothing felt right. If this was all Sidney's dad's doing then... why kill Casey Becker and Steve Orth? What did they have to do with him? You would've understood if they had attended Stu's party and were just caught in the crossfire but that wasn't the case, they were killed before the massacre—days before, in fact. Why? Why target them?

And—why would a murderer, who made sure all of his victims were dead, stab both Billy and Stu just perfectly so that he missed their vitals and didn't dig deep enough for them to actually be able to die of blood loss?—or, at least, not for a long while. Wouldn't he want to also make sure they were dead before offing himself?

The weapon too—why the hell did you only find a gun at the scene of the crime when there was evidence of a knife being used as well? If he didn't care enough to dispose of the gun he used to kill himself and others, why dispose of the knife?

None of it added up. None of it was making any sense.

"Fuck!"

Frustration coursed through you, crawling through your skin to visibly cause the bulging of your veins and urge your brows down further than ever before. The deep bags under your eyes weren't doing you any wonders either.

You were struggling and it showed.

Papers sat haphazardly strewn across the desk in front of you, each one depicting different inked up versions of the crime scene—from the body of Tatum Riley hanging by the driveway door, to the very gun that brought about the end of the accused 'murderer' himself. To the normal civilian, it would be hard to stomach—to you, it was just another Tuesday.

Except, this Tuesday seemed to really want to bash your head in.

With another aggravated huff through your lips, your hand shot out to the messy pile before sifting through it, trying to find something—anything—that would satisfy this god-awful itch in the back of your mind.

Then—a creak.

Your eyes shot up, muscles tensing as you scanned the shadows leaking through the corners of the room for the cause of the noise. One hand kept hovering above the sheets and the other slowly inched towards the drawer beneath you, fingers steadily winding around the knob before—

"Kid, what are you doing here?"

The flick of a switch came with the familiar voice that asked you that question; a voice that instantly caused your optics to widen and your back to suddenly go from lax to rigid as you clumsily fumbled around in your seat. "Sheriff!"

He grunted, voice gruff as he continued, "It's almost one, you have school tomorrow, why the hell are you still here?"

You parted your lips—ready to respond—when he squinted and scanned the desk, opening his own mouth to speak again before you could.

"Are those all from the casefile of the Woodsboro Massacre? Kid, that case is solved. It's done. The hell are you doing still in the station this late with those files?"

Your lips tugged down as your gaze trailed his own. "It just... it doesn't feel right, chief."

When he didn't respond, you chose to keep going.

"I mean, why would he kill his own daughter? I was close with Sid, I knew her and I knew how much her dad adored her—"

"That's the thing with psychos, Y/N, they—"

"He isn't just a psycho though!" That came out unnecessarily loud, and the chief seemed to think so too with the way his brow rose pointedly as soon as the words fell out, "Sorry, I... this case has been killing me all night. It just... it doesn't line up. If he really did snap, why target Casey Becker and Steve Orth days before the anniversary of his wife's death? Why specifically them? And why leave Billy and Stu with non-lethal wounds before killing himself?

"I know I should be grateful that they're still alive considering they're my best friends and all..." you continued, tone solemn, "and I am! I really am! I just... I can't help but find this all too strange."

And as you hung your head down, your ears soon perked up to the sound of several more creaks slowly growing louder as they made their way over to your seated form. 

Then, a warmth blanketed your shoulder, causing your head to tilt up and your eyes to meet with a pair that seemed to slowly soften the longer you spent looking at them.

"Look, kid, you're a genius. That's why you work at this station. That's what you worked hard to prove to everyone here. Every cop in this town respects you—including me. If you say you think something's up with this case, then I believe you."

Your eyes lit up.

"Just... promise me you won't stay up this late investigating it. You can come down to the station as soon as school is over tomorrow but let me give you a ride home today."

You could do nothing but nod vigorously, too elated to form words as of that current moment. The nodding was enough though, and soon, you found yourself situated in the chief's car, buildings passing by in a flurry of colours as he drove over the bumps of the rocky road beneath you, gaze focused ahead.

With the incessant chatter of the radio echoing in the background, you almost couldn't hear your own thoughts. But, they were there. And they were just as unyielding in their fight for your attention.

Your skin crawled at the thought of Billy's expression if he ever found out about your doubt in his eye-witness account. Stu could brush it off easily but Billy... he was troubled, to say the least. He had a lot going on and you were one of the only people he trusted enough to share it all with; so to hear that you found him suspicious in any way would... well, it would crush him.

But, justice was justice. You pursued being a detective because it needed someone to deliver it with an iron fist. If that meant having to doubt the words of someone close to you then so be it. You worked so hard to get to where you were, you would be sure to honour it wholeheartedly.

"Here we are, kid." You blinked, turning to the officer beside you. "Get some rest, alright? See you tomorrow."

With a nod, you stepped out of the vehicle, and it didn't move an inch until you made it inside the house—staying there for a couple more seconds after the door closed before the wheels turned again as he started off once more.

And you didn't know if it was just because he was gone—his presence always being able to make you feel so much more safe than you did on a daily basis—but... a sudden chill ran down your spine, pricking your skin with a feeling you couldn't quite place your finger on but an unsettling one nonetheless.

You didn't quite get enough sleep that night.

But then again, when did you ever? Perhaps your paranoia was at an all time high because of insomnia—but, you digressed.

Besides, it was a new day and you had just arrived at school. You should focus—

—that was a lot easier said than done, though. Almost mindlessly staring into your open locker, you let your thoughts drift to the nefarious case for the umpteenth time. 

Stop it, Y/N. Save it for the station.

With a sigh, you slammed the door shut and almost jumped when you caught view of what seemed to suddenly appear by your side.

There, stood one of the very boys your mind couldn't seem to hold off on thinking about recently—leaning against the locker with his defined arms crossed over his chest and his parted bangs falling over his face to frame it perfectly, basically forcing you to notice the way his lips were slightly twitched up as he gazed back at you.

"Billy," you whispered.

"Y/N," he responded, lips twitching up just a bit more, "I was wondering if you wanted to come over later? Watch a movie with me? I was gonna watch with Stu but then his family had that last minute trip thing."

Instantly, you were brought back to your conversation with the chief yesterday and your gaze drifted off to the side as you spoke—albeit a bit hesitantly—"I don't know... I should really get down to the station..."

He frowned at that, one arm unfolding to reach for your own, landing on your bicep before his fingertips slowly trailed down, ghosting over the exposed skin to send tingles down your spine as his palm finally found yours, fingers interweaving not too long after.

"C'mon, you spend so much time at the station now—it's like you're more hung up on this case than me. I barely ever get to see you. I miss my favourite girl."

That was true. Not the part about him barely seeing you (well, that was true too but—), the part about you being more hung up on the case than him—and he was actually there in person. It had only been a few days but Billy and Stu had seemed to move on just fine—which was strange considering the fact that, y'know, both of their girlfriends were dead.

Maybe, if you said yes, you'd be able to ask some specific questions to Billy; see if he was hiding any details from you.

"Okay," slowly, you nodded, "Yeah, sure, I'll come over."

At that, his lids fell halfway down his eyes before he purred out—voice borderline seductive—"Perfect."

To any girl who was none the wiser, that would send pleasant shivers down their spine—the shivers running down your spine, though, were anything but pleasant.

The rest of the school day breezed by and all you could find yourself thinking about was the case and Billy—he was practically living rent-free in your head. Even as he showed up at your last class—leaning against the wall in that way that just screamed Billy Loomis—you found yourself too stuck in your thoughts about him to be able to pay attention to the real him.

And he noticed.

"Y/N? You good?"

You blinked, tilting your head to his form as he walked beside you, the light breeze blowing slightly against his beautiful brown locks. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He frowned, reaching the hand that had been brushing against your own this whole time further towards you before asking, "You sure?"

Lightly, and as subtly as you could, you pulled your hand away. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He tilted his head down towards where your hands would've met and you watched as his lips pulled taut, expression almost appearing... blank as he stared at the empty space before his gaze flitted back up and he stuffed his hands into his pockets, muttering out a gruff 'okay' as he did so.

The rest of the walk to his house was silent—the wind and mindless chatter of other teenagers being the only thing your ears could pick up on.

And as you made it to his door, your heart constricted a little—thoughts wandering back to the look on his face after you rejected his seek for touch. Billy wasn't usually a physical person, at least, not with anyone but you and his now-dead girlfriend.

Though, even with Sid, his touch seemed a little more tense and uncertain than with you. You noticed the way he barely hesitated to hold you; the way he almost seemed relieved when he did finally get to feel you—be it against him or just your presence in the room. 

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he had a crush on you. But he had a girlfriend already—one he asked out, no less—so that couldn't be the case. The only explanation was that he really valued you as a friend. And that thought pricked you so much more than it should've.

Perhaps... perhaps you were being too paranoid with your thinking. The case was done. Over. You should just lay it to rest before you ended up really hurting one of your best friends.

Yeah... yeah. You'd do just that. You were going to enjoy this day with Billy. No more getting caught up in cases that were already solved. Nope. It was time to be there for your best friend.

With that thought in mind, you reached out your hand, slowly intertwining your fingers with the tall boy's own as he opened the doors of his home—pausing for a moment to glance back at you with wide eyes before his lips stretched up more than you had ever seen before and he tugged on your arm.

It was the littlest of force but it was sudden enough to send you tumbling into his chest as his arms engulfed you wholy; entirely. You could practically feel that familiar sense of relief radiating off his form and you couldn't help the laugh that echoed off yours.

"God, I missed you," he mumbled into your hair and a small, gentle smile graced your lips.

"I missed you too."

You stood there for a few more moments, basking in each others presence for just a little longer before you decided to pull away—albeit being met with a little resistance from Billy's end but, you were eventually successful.

"Alright, c'mon, you big sap, let's go in and watch your favourite scary movie." 

He grinned at that, instantly moving to grab your hand again as he led you to his room—rushing through the clear, monotone halls before he arrived at his wooden door and opened it with a wide swing of his arm. 

Soon, you found yourself seated on his bed, feet kicking back and forth as you awaited his presence. He had gone to go retrieve the VHS containing his movie from the ground floor so it was just you sat in the confines of the room riddled to the brim with horror posters from all sorts of media.

For a jock, he sure was a nerd.

One particular thing stood out to you, though—a small, rectangular bit of paper clipped to a string. It illustrated a smaller version of both yourself and Billy, stood beside each other with large grins on your faces—carefree and bright in their nature; loving and tender.

He still had that?

Unable to stop yourself, you moved to get a closer look—

—only to almost stumble when your foot caught the edge of something that certainly wasn't the ground.

A box—dull and beaten up. It was made up purely of cardboard which definitely wasn't doing it any wonders when it came to durability, that was for sure. The brown colour was quite unsightly to look at and the way some parts seemed almost... maroon was strange, to say the least.

Ever the investigator, you almost couldn't help the way your fingers naturally curved around the lid, slowly lifting the rough material up before shifting it to the side just in time to catch a familiar mask staring right back at you.

Mouth opened wide in an endless scream as soulless black eyes glared into your form—the sharp silver of a cutting blade coated in crimson laying beside it. It was almost too much to process at once.

And as you picked up the leather notepad sat beneath the dark robe under the mask, the gears slowly started turning in your head.

Flicking through the pages only further solidified your conclusion.

That mask belonged to Ghostface. That knife laying next to it was coated in blood. Unless there was some other murder that happened between now and the massacre, this was definitely the missing evidence from the crime scene. 

And it was all in Billy Loomis' room.

You had an inkling, but this... this was on a whole other level.

The notebook detailed different ways to rid yourself of evidence when committing a murder, each one being linked back to a particular horror movie—even going as far as to have quotes obsessively scribbled near them with timestamps and everything. It was insane.

But, by far, the craziest thing was that Billy—your Billy—committed all of this. And if Billy was in on it, then so was Stu.

They both had murdered your whole friendship group that night.

Your fingers shook as you slowly stood up, legs barely able to hold your weight with how weak that realisation rendered you. It was like a bucket of ice cold water had been splashed onto you, drenching you from head to toe with the cruelty of the world.

Then—a click.

Slowly, you turned, book slipping from between your fingers as your eyes landed on the figure at the doorway.

Instantly, your hands shot up.

Billy stood there—expression blank as his eyes seemed almost... lifeless—with one hand raised and fingers wrapped around a black L-shaped object.

Your muscles grew tense. "Billy..."

"Stu's a fucking idiot," scoffed he, "I told him to burn all that stuff but he insisted we keep it as some sort of memento mori—something to remember our success with."

He took a step forward. You took a step back.

"But let's be honest, Y/N, you would've found out eventually, right?" As he spoke, your gaze stayed trained onto the gun, watching as he flailed it around—pupils shaking and hysteria slowly but surely clouding his eyes. "You always were too smart for your own good."

Your heart was beating ten miles a minute, practically playing drums in your ears with how loud it was as you continued to back away. "Billy, put the gun down."

"Y'know, Stu wanted to kill you... but I said no. Wanna know why?" He was now grinning from ear-to-ear. "'Cause I love you. I always have. Even as I was fucking that stupid whore Sidney that night, all I could think of was you."

You were running out of room to move back to. "Billy..."

"There! I confessed!" He suddenly rose his volume, and you winced a little. "Isn't that what you want?! A confession?! There's your fucking confession, Y/N!"

Getting kind of sick of all the ignoring, you spat back, "You know damn well that isn't the type of confession I want!"

"Well, maybe if your hadn't been such a snooping whore I wouldn't have to give you it!" 

Here. There. Everywhere. He kept pointing that thing around so carelessly while his finger stayed hovering over the trigger, just one jerk away from a misfire; one jerk away from your possible end.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I promise."

"Billy! Be careful with that damn thing!"

A slam.

"You know, Y/N, I wouldn't even have to use this if you minded your own goddamn business!"

Your back hit the wall, and the barrel was now pointing directly. at. you.

"So pretty for me," he whispered, voice having mellowed out so suddenly—so dementedly—you almost couldn't believe your ears as he closed in on you, practically pressing his body right up against yours, "My pretty girl."

The barrel of the gun was directly under your chin now, being used to tilt your head and lock your gaze with his own, crazed one.

"Such a clever girl, aren't you, dollface?" His praises came out steadily, voice low and husky as he continued to coo, "My clever little detective."

And as the world went black around you, you caught one more voice enter the room.

"Took ya long enough."

[lilacgaby]

day one

~2k

chapter select!

i do not got this.

[name] could barely sleep because of her nerves. she kept replaying the worst scenarios possible in her head.

what if he rejected her in front of everyone? she'd have to leave the school from the embarrassment. she'd be trash-- the trash of society!

maybe she just needed to eat.

she crawled out of bed, put on her house slippers, and made her way down to the kitchen.

she saw a couple other early risers along the way, momo greeted her and congratulated her on her successful mission, and iida told her not to stay out past curfew.

same old, same old.

she started to make some chai to drink. "maybe momo would want some, i should make her a glass." [name] pondered out loud while preparing the tea.

she went up to give the glass to momo. "ah, thank you [name]!"

"no problem momo."

she then on her way down, eyed katsuki who was heading to the kitchen at the same time as her.

okay [name]. stay cool.

she poured herself a glass. he walked up beside her.

"yo."

"hey, you want some chai?"

"sure."

she poured him some in a glass, and he nodded appreciatively.

so far so good. she didn't even need a third wheel.

katsuki looked around as if to make sure no one else was with them, then he said...

"did you see when usui kissed misa, and jumped off the building?"

"yes! it was so cute, he really is the best."

"how did he not break his legs though? he should've broken a leg, it would've been such an easy plot point to develop. she could've taken care of him and gotten closer to him that way."

[name] thought for a second. "i mean, maybe the author thought it was too predictable though? you gotta read the next volume. what happens next is so cool!"

"no spoilers [name]."

she sighed. "it wouldn't be spoilers if you weren't such a slow reader. hurry up! it's literally pictures!"

"you didn't even finish ouran high school host club loser. don't talk to me."

"pfft. i watched the anime, who needs the manga?"

"the anime didn't even go in depth to all the arcs!"

"whatever man."

"do you even remember the characters?"

"yes i do! i'm not an idiot."

"then who's your favorite host?"

"kyoya."

"why?"

"because-" oh no. "because sometimes he reminds me of--"

"heya guys! what're you doing? flirting over here?" kirishima exclaimed. expertly cutting her off.

she really did need a third wheel. and she did need to thank kirishima and call him the manliest man in the world, because he really saved her ass.

"no, shut up shittyhair." katsuki remarked, before going off to the side to cook something.

'thank you!' [name] mouthed.

'for what?' kirishima mouthed back.

she facepalmed internally, but mouthed back, 'i'll tell you later.'

he did a signature smile, before going to pester bakugo.

she was saved, for now. she went to go get cleaned up for classes. she did her hair, a bit of makeup, ironed her clothes, and readied her bag.

now, to survive school.

✧˖*°࿐

luckily, she sat next to mina the entire day. unluckily, all the girls in the class were avid gossipers. which would've been great.. every week except this one.

normally [name] would never be nervous while gossiping. she could read others like a hawk, and if she didn't have shoes on, she could focus to an extent and feel their heart beats to confirm or deny whatever they're saying.

of course, she wasn't a bully. she'd only ever think about whether they were lying or telling the truth to herself. she just wished she could keep it to herself today.

"hey [name]." oh no.

"we all always talk about our crushes and stuff-"

stop please.

"so we gotta ask,"

mina please step up!

"we gotta ask why you're so respectful? like c'mon! live a little and talk a bit of trash about some people. there's gotta be something or someone you don't like." mina cut in, saving the day.

who knew the third wheeling would extend to people she didn't even have a crush on?

"uh, well it's not that i don't like people, it's more i don't wanna bother myself thinking about them."

"really? well, who don't you like?" damn it jirou and your good questions.

"mineta." phew, good save me!

"that's too easy of an answer, like, do you hate anyone from 1-b?" Uraraka asked.

yay another easy answer! "i don't hate anyone from 1-b."

the girls all seemed to accept it, phew, nobody ask the opposite and we're good.

"hey, but aren't we asking [name] the wrong question?" tsuyu suddenly said

no! not when i was just safe!

"oh yeah, [name]. who do you like?"

"b--"

"who's ready to learn?" present mic yelled as he jumped onto one of the desks in the front.

"get down. alright settle down and get into your seats. class is starting." mr. aizawa said, the commotion effectively covering her answer.

the girls all went to their seats.

                                     --------

the next hurdle was lunch time. piece of cake.

except for the fact that she'd always sit in between katsuki and mina.

no big deal.

everything started out normal. everyone besides bakugo did their best to not question [name] directly, as they found out only when it was directed to her that she'd be forced to answer.

bakugo was luckily never much of a talker himself, only butting in to defend himself or jokingly insult others, even though majority of his insults held no weight.

but sometimes they'd catch themselves in the middle of their sentences, and have to fix their speech before [name] would be forced to answer. the goal post was moved from not confessing to not making her answer any odd questions at all. because bakugo would definitely notice her robotic answers.

"yeah like, didn't [name] totally-- i mean uh-- didn't we all totally flunk that test?"

-

"[name] remember when we-- uh-- i mean guys remember when we snuck out that one time?"

"which time?"

-

"dude, the convenience worker totally has a crush on [name]! right [na--] uh-- everyone?"

[name] focused almost unconsciously, and she noticed that katsuki's heart beat was speeding up for some reason. huh.

-

"you idiots are acting weird today." bakugo said out of no where.

"what? pfft. no way." sero said, trying to play it off.

"you're crazy man, i mean.. we're all acting normal. it's you who's acting weird!" denki said, before laughing awkwardly.

"yeah something is definitely up. how many of you dumbasses are in on it?"

"what? bakugo you're being uh-- irrational."

"since when do you talk like that raccoon eyes?"

"uh-- since i studied?"

everyone face palmed at that.

"okay the jig is up. the fuck is going on?"

"uh.. gotta go. i'm uh-- real hungry! needa get some sun y'know? see ya!" [name] left before anyone could stop her.

mina followed after her, leaving denki, sero, and kirishima to use the collective 5 brain cells they have to try and convince bakugo that nothing was up.

she was so gonna owe them more than a dinner for this.

                                       ၄၃

[name] didn't know what lie they were gonna come up with. and to be honest, she really didn't want to find out.

as she sat on the rooftop, she let the chloroplasts out on her skin, which made her have a couple green-ish spots all over.

"eating really does help." [name] murmured.

"watching you eat is so crazy! i mean you're literally turning green!" mina said, eyes wide and wonder filled.

"...you're literally pink.. but okay."

"hey, can't we ask mr. aizawa to nullify the quirk while we're in class?"

"... mina that is the smartest thing you've ever said."

"cool! we'll need to update everyone at our daily meeting today. as long as he agrees we'll only need to worry about other times!"

"we should go now, before class starts."

"okay! you go ahead, i'm gonna go see what our other agents said to bakugo."

"agents?"

"just go!"

                                        ‧₊˚✩彡    

"um.. mr. aizawa? may i come in?"

"yes." he grumbled sleepily. he was in his sleeping bag, barely looking up at her.

"what is it [name]? is this to clear up about you being on the floor? because i really didn't care."

"uh.. no. this is about something that happened while i was on the mission."

"go on." she could tell that even though he seemed completely uninterested, that she had his full attention.

"well, you see, i was hit by a quirk. a truth telling quirk. and it's going to last for 6 more days."

"oh?"

"and.. i'd really appreciate your help. if you could nullify my quirk during just time when we're sitting in the classroom, it'd help a lot." she bowed respectfully as she made her request.

the room was silent as aizawa was seemingly thinking it over.

"sure, why not."

"thank you! i won't forget this!"

                                      ೀ

the second half of the day went by like a breeze. because mr. aizawa was cancelling her quirk, she lived her life in temporary peace for the remaining hours of the school day.

she smiled with relief, everything is going good now.

she cleared up her answer with the girls while she still could,

"guys, i don't have a crush on anyone. im just too busy."

and then she relaxed fully.

the walk to the dorms was easy, she didn't have to worry about dinner since she didn't eat, and she could always call an early night to get out of uncomfortable situations.

easy peezy.

she had no time to talk to bakugo for the rest of the day, since he had such an early bed time.

at last.. the daily meeting was here.

"alright guys! great saves today! here are the rankings for best agents. [name] would you do the honors?"

"yes. unless the honors is a person. i do not know them well enough to do them.

...

just give me the damn chalk."

mina held back a laugh while she walked up.

"okay, on the bottom we have.. denki."

"what? no way!"

"yes way! you were being way too obvious earlier! which brings me to my next loser: sero."

"no way, this is rigged."

"no it's not! what point of no questions do you not understand! anyways

next up, we have kirishima. amazing work this morning!"

kirishima bowed jokingly.

"and lastly, one for one, we have alien queen mina!"

"this is so rigged!"

"obviously she'd win, they're best friends!"

"sounds like jealously! anyways-- thank you [name]! take a seat."

[name] took a seat as mina resumed her place as the leader.

"okay agents! we have a new addition to the team: mr. aizawa!"

"what?" everyone said collectively.

"correct! i came up with the brillant idea for him to use his power on [name] during class time when we're all just sitting around. that's how i earned top spot!

so now, our sub-operation is this:

plan [name]'s perfect confession."

"what?" [name] scoffed, "that's not part of this operation!"

"and besides.. with what denki told bakubro earlier.. we can't go on with that yet."

"what the hell did you idiots tell him?!"

"we just said you were embarrassed because you have crazy woman issues and don't want anyone to question you right now!  he interpreted that however he did!" denki defended.

"hey-- i didn't say any of that. it was all you man."

"way to throw me to the wolf sero!"

"just get out! all of you!"

"meeting over guys!"

"mina what the hell?! i thought you went to make sure they didn't say anything super stupid!"

"i did! but it was too late.. see ya [n/name]!"

my life is over.

prev | next!

[eldrith]

ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴅᴇɴ ; ᴘᴀʀᴛ ғᴏᴜʀ.

ɪɴɴᴏᴄᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴅɪᴇᴅ sᴄʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ ;

jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader words: 9k synopsis: jacaerys falls for a woman in aegon's garden. notes: sorry abt the delay but here is part four! def an introspective chapter but things are ramping up for the last part chapter warnings: freaky ass dreams — death. allusions to smut, finger sucking, making out. lore. religious imagery/symbolism, slight suicidal themes surrounding death as a concept (message me if u have questions), manipulation, tarrgaryen slander(my fav), arguments, creepy imagery, blood & gore. food as allegory. basically everything as allegory atp.

THE VOICE FINDS HIM IN THE SHADOWS OF SIGHT. 

“Jacaerys?” 

It lurks; not unlike those looming memories which throb in the back of his mind with each passing day, eyes sullenly cast out the casement of his window upon the breathing garden below – it lurks within some hidden recess of his mind, waiting for him to stumble so unwillingly into its notched crosshairs. 

“Jacaerys,” the voice calls. It is a voice he knows well. 

Blanketed by a sky of bruises, Jacaerys looks up to those thundering blemishes which impede low into the air; He is here for something. 

Returning his gaze to the earth, he stalks with burning muscles, lungs cinched by the brutal kiss of iced wind. 

There is a sharp snap to his left; a twig, some withered old limb of a growth long past felled – it echoes sharply along the field, into the empty bones of those which litter upon the wildgrass. The gasp falls from his lips and plumes out, trickling into the cold night air.

With a spin of his gaze, the garden lurches – no – the battlefield; no, indeed some apprised paralyzation of both. 

Jace stares incredulously at the scorched earth, smoldering shards of burnt stakes and wrought iron – and the smell, some decaying rejection of earth, some burnt and putrid soil which still squelches when he drags his boots over mangled fallen vines. 

Crimson leaks from wounds within the thickened tendrils of vined earth; bloody gashes which ooze with some putrid ichor, thick with the unmoving wind as they glaze over the sharpened blades of fallen soldiers, bearing black or verdant sigils. 

Bodies lie, mummified in overturned black – matted with rotten leaves, blooms kiss the corpses which twitch with the final rattle of esse. 

A yelp from a skeletal mass below the curving hedges, and Jace lurches in fear: Hair of silver, a gown of gold, a third eye between her brow; the familiar shadow of his youth is petrified under the curling grasp of blackthorne before his very eyes, a malicious whisper in the unmoving gloom as her eyes glaze with some ancient kismet. And with a sickening turn of her head, paled lips move, beetles crawling and scuttling into the shadows. “The fruit is poisoned from the tree of kings,” his aunt whispers to him from lifeless lips; her third eye blinking, bloodshot, pained. 

He staggers back, though quickly schools himself, ignoring the sharp pain in his head and the clench of fear twisting his gut. He is here for something. 

A thick dread curls in his stomach when he eyes the smaller shapes of three boys – two pure of hair, and one with the very same mopped curls which sprout tangled with the vines of earth; and a young woman, slumped and scorched, her hands outstretched in protection of them. He does not allow himself to glance any longer at the bodies. 

Jacaerys’s heart thunders, his shoulder catching on a sharp thorne as he bursts through a corner, gasping for breath as it chokes him. You await him, somewhere in the depths of this battlefield, and Jacaerys fights his own mind from conjuring visions of you, slumped and decaying just as the rest of them – just like each of the spoilt veins which spill and fertilize the soil below. 

Your voice comes to him as clear as a whisper in the corner of his mind. Boots sink into the soft black soil – vines, dark and sharp things, wrap around the weary leather of his boots; crimson armor disappears beneath the decay, swallowed in the yawning gluttony of fate, whispers whistling through the hedges which tower around him. “… And what you made, what we’ve made… look at it all. It is art. A stroke of brush upon my kind, used soul.” 

The hair upon his nape stands once more; the voice, curling around each bend of his mind, leaking hunger, enticement. An unnatural rhythm in the shadows; serpents, scales emerald and venomous, within in the depths – they blink with a single eye, gaze mocking in a glint of cobalt sapphire; and he runs.

The garden stirs with his dreading heart; littered bodies scalded and ashed, billowing in irrecoverable bursts below his footfall when he staggers past. Daisies sprout, jagged and thorned, from scorched wildgrass; peeking their shy petals through slats of disintegrated armor, singed by death. 

The voice follows him, though when his gaze snaps to the statue, The Thorned Dragon looms larger than he’d recalled. A ragged gasp escapes his throat. 

There, its spiny throngs are curved rather unnatural – bent into a labored revolve, the dragon swallows its own tail; horns jagged and unforgiving, piercing into its own soft underbelly with a silent, deafening roar. “Your blood – come in fire, leave in ash.”

The words scrape within the pounding agitation within his mind – and, unable to cast out such unpropitious omens, Jacaerys staggers towards the iron casting, eyes widening in a thickened breath. 

And it is then that he discovers a lump of darkness curled upon the base of the Thorned Dragon; with a jagged lurch towards the fineries which litter the vines below, a crawling horror builds within his throat. 

Pale skin, finer than his own – a necklace of Valyrian steel, a gown fine and black with scorched marks of death – and that very crown, swallowed and corroded below a stiffened grasp, stilled marks of clawing fingers through the earth. 

Ravens black as the night peck at the flesh of the very body he once came from.

It is sickening – bone splinters beneath such scrutiny, a terrifying crack which leaves Jacaerys with a drop of dread spreading through his body. “You breathed life into my breast…”  

The Thorned Dragon watches the Prince stumble away; the end of the garden nears, its fallen horses singed with banners of the very beast which brought about their end. Jacaerys retches, but is met with a river of red, blue, green; pouring in a sickening slip from his lips unto such a pale palm – with a panicked gasp, he sputters. 

Slithers of white flicker in the shadow; a cleansed breath, as his heart leaps – some safety from the poisoned earth, from the poisoned resolution of the very blood running in his veins. 

 “And I bleed because you feel the pulse within my veins, within the roots below.” 

And then, after a moment of frozen muscle, a familiar laugh from the depths behind him – he knows better than to turn, instead leaping with a gasping panic, lurching towards the gates which slink away from his fingers with a sickening leer. 

“They await your lead. Go to them, choose them…” Dread tugs his gut, shaking as he chances a glance behind his shoulder – but it is no longer Aegon’s Garden. 

Flashes of mountains, of sprawling moors, of valleys and seas and Keeps of red and hearths dying out; of stony cliffs, of the frigid, withered talons of death from afar – “Jacaerys Targaryen. The King Who Will Be.”  

It is not a name he has been called before you – and it is a name which now splinters into shards of glass within his lungs, piercing his heart and seizing him with some lick of doom. 

Sick, Jacaerys stumbles away – the circle turns, some ominous and self-abhorrent whisper within his mind reminds him; The circle turns, yes – 

 Limbs above him, bowing low in a weep; and those very fine fruits, glistening and blushing in the moonlight. Their scent, heavenly even in such a fuzzy state – and a memory of lips, salaciously pressed to the flesh, tongue darting out… 

His hand shakes as he reaches towards it, heart thundering as he hears footsteps approaching; a panic within him, knowing he has not enough time. 

Not enough time. 

But he stops short: 

From the blossoms come something thick – blood, no, ink – no, something which stains the earth with sin. Emerald and crimson, staining upon the blooms which wilt and curl away as if struck by a bout of chilling breath. 

The footsteps arrive behind him. 

JACAERYS JOLTS WITH A SHARP, DRIED GASP. 

Tallowed wax has weeped hours in wait of his silenced patience; a slumber rather calm in exterior, though when he awakes he drives a kneecap into the bottom of the table, gasping in a sharp, drowned way.

Syrupy, gasped blinks – Jacaerys inhales the breath of a man submerged in some iced seas, alone and choked of any respite from the final wink of existence.

“Taking a catnap, are we?” 

He jolts once more; and a laugh, hearty and trickling, echoes in the stone drum – it is not a haunting sound, nor is it in any notion a fetching one – but rather one as familiar as his own kin. It is his own kin. 

Baela rounds the stone table, regarding Jacaerys’ stirred frame; he, with tired and rather disturbed eyes, glances with a fainting stare of vexed provocation. “Gods,” He finally breathes, the whispers of dreams far too present in his sharply pained mind. “I can’t even recall falling asleep.” 

She wears her dragonriding gown – an invitation to accompany her of which he’d turned down earlier this morn. 

The days grow on and so does, it seems, Jacaerys’ blistering headaches; indeed, Vermax has taken ill as of recent, and it would be a poor choice to try and take him flying under such circumstances. Scale rot, they’d said – a quite rare instance, recorded only one other time by a maester many, many years before and ruled farce by account of him turning mad and taking the black not a moon after. 

Jacaerys fights quite hard to avoid her stare. 

There is a worry in Baela’s gaze that has long since befallen the faces of many who walk such halls; but Jacaerys knows well, it is a superficial concern; it is the worry of a soldier falling ranks, of a lady retaining her favor as a knight mounts for jest, of a stableman watching a horse with a limp. 

And still, she says nothing of it. 

“Well,” She mutters instead with a light smirk; Jacaerys meets her stare with a blink. “You act as though you saw a spectre.” 

It is only with her words of innocent jest which he recalls the depths of his dreaming torment; Perhaps I have, he reminds himself – in a flash of Lucerys, curls shining against hedges of bursting green and pink, of slithering vines. Or, perhaps, he sees it each day – in gowns snagged around branches, in the glinting hunger of a gaze, in a sharp smile curling around the juices of a ripe fig. 

He clears his throat, eyes returning to the parchment softened with age– tracing over the mark indented where his cheek had rested in a fitful slumber moments ago. His mind has grown numb in the battle against the aching pains; he has rendered himself, in the days since that fateful night under the fig tree, rather recluse and solitary. And with time came confusion, then acceptance, then bewitchment, and now… some paranoid, brewing anger. 

“I suppose I grew weary with Maester Layn’s prose,” Jacaerys attempts for a joke; yet when his gaze reclaims the handscript scrawled in increasingly maddened flutters, droning on and on for pages until the final third of the journal is left blank, there is a deep unsettling stir within his stomach. 

“-Layn?” Baela repeats – she truly is a well-studied girl, Lady Laena made sure of such a thing with both her daughters – and her brow furrows. “The Mad Maester?” 

Jacaerys nods absently, closing the leather rather abruptly in a flash of wariness, thumbing the page he’d earmarked in haste. “Apparently so.” He affirms rather distractedly. There is a paranoia which rises from its dirt grave within his chest – grasping with hands unseen, his stomach and throat begin to tighten. 

With a gentle nod, Jacaerys stands once more; bones tired and weary, he grasps the Old Maester’s journal with a jolt and excuses himself from Lady Baela. “I should retire. Such reading has rendered me spent.” 

It is clear that she is unused to his curt discussions as of late – though never quite close, the cousins have spent considerable time together in the days of their siblings’ absence, and Jacaerys has never been one for much recluse. Times change, perhaps. 

Jacaerys minds to not brush her as he walks past, though her words stop him. 

“– And?”

He slows to a halt, blood churning and words of confession dancing on his tongue; the journal is heavy underarm – it pulls him towards the sinking stone floor, below it, down to where the beasts, ancient and warm, stir underfoot. 

Half-turn of head when he glances her way – Baela needs not elaborate; He has known her a good part of this life to understand the words which lie unsaid within her throat. 

The words burn through the parchment within his arms; Truth, they whisper – but he merely clenches the journal closer to his chest. “And… It was as they say.” He lies through his teeth, and is surprised to find no remorse within his heart. 

Jacaerys can only think of one thing; one laugh, one smile, one voice which tells him of love and devotion – of the voice which lives in the very garden Maester Layne studied and then lost his mind over those many years ago – and so Jacaerys nods towards the wall of stone, unable to face his cousin behind him: 

“He went mad.” 

THERE WAS ONCE A TIME JACAERYS WALKED THE HALLS OF HIS HOME. 

Halls of warmth, where any such whispers of doubt or dishonor would slide off the backs of boys much younger than Jacaerys is today; where he and his brothers, dark of hair and high of chin, would spar in yards, would laugh at feasts, would bow to their grandsire, would toss small bits of venison to their maturing mounts. 

And it is not necessarily the shift of land beneath feet – of bay harbors of blackened water shifting to sliding dark sand and island-whipped wind; for no matter where he rests his head to slumber, the scent of ancient smoldering smoke lies intrinsically tied to his bloodline – eternally. 

No matter the name he bears, nor the blood pulsing in his veins, nor the castle he walks; Jacaerys cannot any longer find that home. 

Halls long and empty; cold, unbearingly so in those moments he sees a flash of his brother – the face carved from his own –  in the mirror, in passing hedges, in the shut of eyelids. 

And long past are days where glory was within reach – what gods so austere would allow for a bastard to follow her place, now that any with a drop of Valyrian blood might stake a claim? These days, it has grown quite clear: unreal are the dreams once so very tangible – when the throne was occupied by a rather lively grandsire, when Jacaerys was placed upon his knee, was told whispers of glory and fate; when he watched dragons dance over the horizon of King’s Landing no larger than the nail of his last finger, patiently awaiting the day Vermax might grow fierce enough to carry him into those very clouds. 

Dragonstone is his birthright, just as much as King’s Landing is; and he has long watched over this small dominion, long wondered how it could be that such a place of blood and ash could yield any other result than just that. The circle turns, after all; The dragon eats its tail. 

And just as such, Jacaerys sits with Aegon’s Garden in the periphery of his vision. 

A stray breeze blows curls to tangle in the curve of his lashes – a sweep of shaking fingers, and the words of Maester Layn seem to dance upon the parchment below. 

In some desperate fear a few nights past, Jacaerys had ripped and scoured Dragonstone’s histories for any mention of the Garden; and such search has yielded merely the ramblings of a maester to the second of Targaryen kings, a maester who went mad and took the Black not a year into his time upon the Island. 

And yet remains his personal accounts in the library – easily left out of such gilded Valyrian histories – a dusted old tome, one which likely has not seen the light of day since Aenys I was a young boy. Some old crone’s ramblings; though Jacaerys feels his skin crawl as the words worm their way into his mind and whisper into his memory. 

The Dragonlords settled these lands when the bailey was merely a plot of saplings; and Aegon’s Garden not yet a Thing but a overturned burial plot of the old gods, volcanic ash and sprouts of wildgrass. 

And their own gods, heavy with the weight of wings which crumble towers and burn ships – things meant to remain untouched by hands so human and tainted with sin. 

It matters not what I might try to guide in the ears of men who believe themselves more than such; From the first, they have been marked for suffering. 

And what greater curse is there than to eternally live and yet still to die? They leave the lands to take more; and yet with each victory, their souls wither. 

This garden watches; it sows, reaps, sows. 

Their fate, I fear, is that of slow decay. 

Philosophies of men long before his own time is something Jacaerys has studied twice over in his preparations for the crown – and yet a most unsure settling feeling, the offense which simmers in his Valyrian veins cools only with the uneasy sense of verity through words so sharp. 

The handscript, from moons after the last entry in the journal; scribbled, uneven – written in maladies and interspersed with recipes for tinctures, and cures for maddening headaches. 

An inkling of fear worries down his spine at the observation; and though the words instill some ominous cognizance in the back of his mind, his hungry eyes continue on. Ravens call shrilly from above; a short breeze gusts the scent of fruit from beyond the wall to the east. 

…And as the star reminds us, it was through the Stranger's envy which death and decay entered the realms of the Andals; still, perhaps, that hatred lingers in the soil foreign and familial, growing within veins of those who dare believe themselves any step above others.

That is to say, those who pulled themselves unto the backs of ancient beings, who deem themselves of the very same molten flesh – and who will, in circle’s turn, eat the flesh of their very own to stay upon the helm. 

The fruit of their seed, oh that cursed fruit – it falls, and will always fall, from that tree of kings; will always bloom rot across the lands. 

Yes, each drop of spilled blood from the wombs of dragonlords bear the mark of fate. A curse, yes — yet what is a curse but the gods’ way of shaping fate into flesh? 

Jacaerys startles as a raven lands upon the stone bench beside him, watching with beady eyes of black; when he glances back to the parchment, the words seem to tremble and pulse with his own heartbeat. Unease drips through his mind, the iced shock of the mad words written before him dousing him entirely. 

Targaryens. Gods among men, they say to themselves – but gods do not bleed. 

Gods do not rot.

The words swirl, their tendrils dragging down the parchment and staining Jacaerys’s fingers; they spin, they bloom, they whittle, they die and are reborn in his mind; a circle forever turning as he looks up towards the open casement of his chambers high, swallowed in half by the storming of clouds which gather above. 

Is he going mad? 

There are naught but a plethora more questions he must ask now; but to whom, he wonders – the raven beside him wails, fluttering before taking flight, towards the garden to the east. Dread welcomes him, a sharp friend. 

Jacaerys watches the bird’s dark shadow become swallowed by the mass of overgrowth which curls and climbs atop the gate ahead; it is clear, now, where he must go. 

There are no more people left here to answer his questions; his mother, too locked upon in her own horizon – Baela, measuring her own squared shoulders to fit into the mould of their Queen; Daemon, far away in the riverlands doing whatever he may please; Maester Gerardys, too enraptured by the foolish beliefs of an aged past. You are no more affected by this than the blooms are affected by a blink of clouds over the sun; you, in your slinking shadows and wild words, your beckoning laughter and spinstry dreams. 

Jacaerys knows in a corner of his mind; as a sower knows when it is to snow, Jacaerys knows it is you who has sent him mad, who spins your web of death and life and whatever monstrous thing lies between. You understand, this taunting limbo which suspends him between a life long-dead and a life unreachable. 

The journal is abandoned upon the bench. 

Crows screech; the gates to Aegon’s garden creak. 

THE ANCIENT ROT SEEPS IN.

It curls in a way he’s never quite taken note of; dirt paths which twist and gnarl, vines which ooze with a sweet scent once so enticing – Jacaerys stalks warily through the strangely thick air, ignoring the prickle on the nape of his neck as he walks. 

A familiar waltz, this has become – though he is not, as it seems, in the mood for a dance. 

It is not long before the garden settles with him. A slow breath, an exhale as he passes the entrance and comes across the Thorned Dragon; a beautiful thing – as beautiful perhaps as you are, in that odd way. 

Your name upon his lips, he wonders if you hear the way his voice trembles, how the fear and worry and resentment leak through his tone. 

He sees first a snag of your hem; slinking around a corner, a snap in the twigs that sends his heart thundering. 

A faint memory of hunting in the woods with his grandsire when he was just old enough to hold a bow; the final look within the gaze of a stag before it was taken from the realm. Its heart, faster and faster until it slowed and, finally, stopped. 

He follows the sound of swishing fabric, of footprints long lost in the rotted earth; blinks within his mind, words written in a panic unto parchment a hundred year’s past. What greater curse is there than to eternally live and yet still to die?

He calls your name. Once, twice – on and on, but still you evade him, disappearing just as he catches a glimpse of you, snapping twigs and slithering past vines as he stumbles blindly, seeking answers to questions not yet formed upon his tongue. 

Anger pulses in such a pathetic chase; though still he gives in, desperate to hear it from your lips, just if only to confirm the truth: That he has no one. That you are no one. 

The rot finds itself within his bones – and, when he brushes his hand against the leaves of a passing vine clung around a woman half-devoured by the sun, a soft giggle floats through the shrubbery. 

A delicate, almost musical rot – a giggle he knows so well by now, one which sends a pang of anticipation and some deep horror through him. He remembers that stag, the way its eyes watched, unmoving down the point of the arrow; and the fluid snap on its neck when it crashed into the wood with an arrow through its throat. 

His grandsire’s laugh, delighted, amused. A life, once more rotted away by that tree of kings. 

Joints within his neck pop once more when he whirls to the sound, unease drifting into his bones when the laugh finds his ears again – but brighter, much more familiar; his stomach drops. 

Luke. A laugh once more, as if they were once more lost in that youthful catch-and-seek game, a rustle from a hedge, the drowning cough of lungs long since failed. But Jacaerys is no longer a young boy – and neither is Lucerys. 

Rage, that long-hidden beast, stirs. It is a cruel, cruel twist for you to play such tricks upon him. It is one thing to plague his mind with silly visions, to haunt his lips or his fist or his heart; though it is not the same to taunt such grief over his head. 

Enough of it; just ahead, the wisp of a shadow moves, and he sees you dart into the brush. 

Rage – that sharp, sudden, ancient rot; it pulses through him, just as harsh and true as his own heartbeat. He’s upon your trail in a moment; though the twists and turns grow confounding, and Jacaerys feels an ache of worry grow within his chest. 

Another glimpse of shadow; you, arm-in-arm with a boy; Lucerys is before him. 

Lucerys walks with you – he is tangible, as fleshed, as smiling as you. 

It is then that he stumbles into the clearing. 

The olive tree, once more; and there, looming above his heaving chest, are the watchful eyes of the woman in the statue, her lover torn and dying within her arms – an arrow through the shoulder, one splintered and rotting from his throat. 

And yet there, at the roots of that very tree, you alone repose – eyes closed as if in a dream, bathed by the light of day broken through the looming branches twisted and gnarled. 

Anger surges at the sight of you, calm with a near smile upon your lips; yet still you have it, he thinks. You still carry the resentment, sorrow, that loneliness which seeps through your visage, which plagues even a face as brilliantly haunting as your own. 

“This is how low you might go, then?” He calls out into the garden, fuming. “You lure me here with memories of the dead? Playing your little tricks, to bring me here?” 

You stir at his sharp voice, a whip in the calm of the day; the crows have long since flown, and only you remain. 

You sigh into the tree above you, eyes opening in that pearled absence before returning to your lovely hues; he is struck with your raw beauty, how you seem to coax his footsteps towards you even in his ire. “Life, death…” 

Your voice is faraway once more, as though pulling the petals from a flower and watching them flutter to the earth. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re truly so different.” 

“You’re cruel,” He spits; pain, grief, anger swirling raw in his heart - you’ve heard the tales - of course you have. Everyone on the island knows of his brother’s fate at the hands of the Kinslayer. It is a cruel thing, to play tricks on him in the way you do. 

You do not flinch at his outburst; a shifting shadow, you stir somewhere beneath the tree. “Jace,” you nearly purr, the pity in your tone stoking the fire within him further. He shakes his head. 

“I did not come to be led through this wretched maze like a fool.” He snaps, and his voice nearly echoes in the eerie calm of greenery. 

Your eyes snap to him, nearly shocked; as if you were not the figure leading him through the hedges and rows of wilting anemones. “Jace-” you begin once more, as if retrying for your first attempt to console him, rising upon your bared feet; a memory past of nights ago, that poisoned sweet of your lips, the kind stutter of breath as he’d pulled you closer to him, felt that heart beat – however falsely – against his palm. 

“–Enough.” He snaps, taking a step back as you float to him, blinking your doe-like eyes at him, tilting your head. A predatory thing, he realizes with an ache of his gut – your mimicked, shy pose so perfected from hours of standing alone in such a garden – a perfect view of his casement from here, perhaps lying in wait for his company, just as he does yours. “What cruel jest is this?” He spits, eyes searching the pits of your own, watching your face slide from disoriented to distressed. 

“What do you mean, Jacaerys?” You wonder – that sweet, worried way you bite your lip, sickly hands outstretched towards him; it broils the anger which festers sharp within him. It is incredulous that he stares at you, rage knotting in his chest at your soft, unassuming tilt of head – a practiced innocence gleaming in the daylight. 

The stuttering heart, the barely-present touch; all which once sent his heart thundering, which now sets his jaw rigid and tense. 

“No,” He hisses, stepping back from your outstretched palm, “I am not some foolish boy, fresh and untested, to be swayed by the honey-sweet looks of some– some serpent.” He spits, voice breaking as the wound beneath his anger slips. 

There is such pressure; that sharp ache which has festered in his inconsolable worries of the Dragonseeds and word of their claimed dragons; the dooming presence of fate which grasps at his collar, which threatens to drag his mother and their line into the depths with it. In circle's turn, they will eat the flesh of their very own to stay upon the wheel. 

The voice jolts him from his thoughts to find you, wide-eyes, and parted lips. A falter, some falling from that delicate mask to something raw, something glinting between a dark hunger and a maliciously deceiving kindness. 

“You should not dare call me such vile things.” You utter, face downturned, dark. And your hand drops; a murmur from you, cold and sweet as winter’s breath. “You’re being cruel. Serpents should be the least of your worries, my Prince.” You whisper. 

It is ominous, the words you mutter; as though you know some ancient thing, some thing which breathes with the pulse of life below soil. A flare of disbelief, his mind numbing and muddling by the moment as he stands, staggered under the olive tree, sweet blooms lulling through the afternoon air. 

"I, the cruel one?” he trembles; words spilling, half-strangled in his throat. “Do you think me blind? That I don’t see what you do — how you laugh in the shadows, whisper in my dreams? That I don’t feel your hands, each night, when I-” He shakes his head, “I…” He trails off, watching as you sway before him, defeated, head low as a chastised child. 

And that faint voice he does not yet seem to have known – yet fervent, insistent: it was through the Stranger's envy which death and decay entered the realms of the Andals. 

In his grief torn mind, he wonders. Is it his name? Is it the legacy of his House, so tall it scrapes the heavens; the stories of old, of Valyrian magic which pulses somewhere faintly in his muddied veins? Do you bewitch him simply for the chance at the riches piling upon the throne, of his future seat – of the fine fabrics, the reach beyond even the kingdoms? Do you, after all he’s told you of his mother, of his father – of the realms; do you truly wish for anything other than to take what he has, all that he has? And that name – that blood, that lineage so cursed; Is that truly all he is? 

“What is it you want from me?” 

What do you want, he pleads – though his mind whispers, soft and sullen, do you want me? 

“I care not for any such things you carry to offer,” Your voice, melodic and haunting as you bite away at beading tears that slide down your smooth cheeks; a faint inkling of alarm in the back of his mind, straining to recall if he’d even spoken any of it aloud – but as you wipe a heavy tear from your lashline, the thought dissipates.

“I want to…I wish to have you.” Your voice warbles, lip wavered; it is a glassy thing, such a gaze, and his heart begins to soften wearily with the small sniff you allow yourself in your wilting figure. 

And gods above strike him, Jacaerys’ heart skips; a warmth of want, of love – the thing he’s yearned after for the better of his young life.  It is with effort that he swallows down the anger which has bubbled up with fear and foreboding; Because you are still a slight, sweet thing – a kind being, a sprouted blossom in a field of ashes. There is no fear here, he understands. There is just loneliness. 

And, always so willing; your lips press together in wait as he gathers his thoughts with a shaky sigh, knowing such anger misplaced will be a burden to all. It’s only a fig, Jace.

But it can’t be; in his heart, a twisting truth – you could not love such a broken man; nameless, unwanted by his own kin, untrusted to fight the war being waged for his own birthright. Forgotten and lonely. He inhales shakily, nodding in some dreadful acceptance. 

“I am not yours to torment.” His heart still thunders with the agony of glimpsing Luke just moments ago; some heavy acceptance lifts from his chest, a burst free from unknowing. An acceptance warm and chilling alike. He sniffs, clenching his fists so they do not begin to tremble.

 “If you’ve lured me here to bury me in specters and shadows, then… you may do as you please.” He levels you with his own watery gaze; in which you swim, haunted and despairing. Perhaps his words are a final leap, some grasp of hope that perhaps you will confirm what he knows in his very heart to be true: that you have love, and that you hold it only for him. 

“-But do not come to me with lies dressed as love.” He whispers.

And your face falls; softness in your eyes growing fragile as the petals upon the flowers which wither near your feet. Your shoulders, slumped as you let out a shaky breath, some dejected misery which sprouts from your frame and blossoms into a pitiful shutter. 

A moment until you straighten, eyes meeting his wetly and trickled with a spark of disbelief. 

“You truly believe such lies spun by men long since in the past?” Your voice shakes – each word, a draw of blood that seems to spill from your raw, tender heart. “That I would bring you pain, that I– that I would wish such suffering upon you? All you’ve done, I-” you lip trembles in that awfully disheartening way; Jacaerys represses such urge to gather you in his arms under the midday sun, to press his lips to the soft glint of your hair. 

You shake your head, leaning upon tipped toes as if to tell him a secret, your hands clenched by your side until they rise to wipe the tears from your wettened eyes. “I do nothing by means of envy or greed – I just – I wish to be with you.” 

Pain, that icy sting; it cowers him, breaks him until a tear slips from his lidded gaze and skids over his cheekbones, fertilizing the rotted earth below his feet.

 And though he believes your very truthful words, there is a sapling which was planted those many years ago when he stepped foot unto the island; that very warning whisper that has tried to break free from the recess of denial and ignorance, that has danced on the tip of Maester’s tongues and perhaps anybody else who dare open their eyes enough to see. 

The truth is that there is something unnatural about Aegon’s Garden; there is something unnatural about you. 

“This place… it’s rotten.” He finally speaks it, and it is as if the word goes silent; away are the crashing of waves, merely the rattling of your bones when you inhale sharply, blinking at Jacaerys with wide, piercing eyes. 

And in that fear, that germinating sapling which turns upon itself under the watchful glare of the outside world, Jacaerys continues. The words fall from his tongue; leaves of a felled oak. 

“The garden, the tree – even you, hiding, lurking in the shadows – It’s…” He shakes his head, unwilling to continue such cursed words; but still it lingers in the back of his mind, pressing at his tongue and stirring the dread in his gut. 

 And that journal, so hastily concealed for generations of Dragonlords rising from the earth and leaving to the capital; years upon years of upturned earth, of that circle which eats its own tail – that hatred lingers in the soil, growing within veins of those who dare believe themselves any step above others. 

Jacaerys faintly begins to wonder when he started having thoughts which were not his own; and, indeed, when these vines began to slither overtop his boots, piercing their thorns into the leather worn with time. Have I gone mad? he wonders – not for the first time. 

“Say it.” You snap. “If you mistrust me so, then say it.” 

He is brought back to the garden by your icy, venomous glare – bristled, perhaps, by his such accusations in the disturbation of your day; and he, in a strike of defiance, in the last grasp of honor towards his duty, his life, his destiny – says it. 

“You are rotten.” He finishes, chest light at the heavy drop of his words. 

Whatever snarl you’d worn drops immediately in a sickening slate of blank visage. 

The world stills once again; he is sharply aware of your stare, eyes gleaming – and the air so stagnant, so earthy, of the fact that you’ve not drawn a single breath since; and a dread slowly creeps into his gut as you level your own gaze upon him.  

“Am I?” You whisper, the faintest twitch of fury within your sharp gaze. “Does the decay not spread from its roots, Jacaerys?” 

You take a step forward, and Jacaerys finds himself suddenly pressed against the statue behind him; a glance and a sharp, startled fear that pierces him as two pairs of lovers’ eyes meet him, stony and cruel. 

You press on towards him, stalking with a viciousness that begins to cloud his rationality. “Tell me, where is your mother? Where is your father? Where is that Kinslayer uncle of yours? Where is the Queen Who Never Was?” 

His throat is thick with a lodged breath; dread stirs within him, that sickening truth as you continue, slinking towards him with the practiced pace of a huntsman with a bow. “You spread like disease – all of you. Children burn, homes crumble – the world a crushed flea under your boot, a decaying whisper of power they all quarrel to grasp.” Your words are a whip in the wind that has gathered – and the stormy roll of sky has plagued the shoreline, boasting of a disastrous storm upon nightfall. “And all for what? For some fate that was written long before even this garden had a name?” 

Jacaerys stares at you; the way your fingers twist – gnarled and as thorned as the vines themselves – around his forearm; when, exactly, had you grasped him? 

“And Jacaerys… you, sweet Jace. You will be a fine king. The finest of them all, perhaps.” You promise and the words are golden and gilded in glory; your eyes shine with the reflection of a throne leagues away, of a life after this island, forgotten under layers of rotting overturned earth. 

He lurches, fighting the bile within his throat at the thought of the word – the word he’s known to one day inherit for his whole life: King. 

He shifts, pulling away from the trancelike gaze that spills from your visage and begins to infect his mind. Fuzzy, he swears he sees figs growing fat and juicy from the olive tree behind you; that he spots a shadow lingering high above the hill in the distance, watching from a windowscape. 

A conscious return of that very hunger, that salacious, depraved craving for the sharp pain of the words you leverage; that same desire which curls and licks its maw at the thought of the figs, of you.  

“They see you for what whispers have rumored behind your shadow all your life, don’t they?” Your words are treasonous; Jacaerys’ jaw clenches. “And is it true – you do not let the words taint and disrobe you, do not let the truth unravel you until all that is left is your kind, used soul?” 

His throat is thick with fear, with dejection; what inkling of truth, what window into his mind have you struck that lets his own thoughts spill from your beautiful lips? “You do not know of what you speak,” He fights meagerly; though he is weak, and your words are as harsh as they are soothing to his lonely heart. 

“Dragonlords,” You spit ruefully, and Jacaerys is struck in a hazy trance of fear and hunger. “Rotting this world from the inside out – and the people are left to wither in the ruins.” 

An image in his mind’s eye – Sharp Pointe, smoldering and dusted in ruins. A garden, a battlefield; all, desecrated. And that hissing sharp from your lips, that aching pulse which triples when you level him with a stare so very hateful. “I am free from all of that here. Here, it is sacred – names matter not. It is only peace, and sweet blooms of eternal summer. Here, the earth feeds itself, the circle turns, the blood comes in fire but leaves in ash-” 

Stopped dead-cold, Jacaerys starts. “-What did you just say?” 

You blink up at him, as if gone from some odd trance – and plush lips flounder, some flickering amusement dying in your gaze under his stare. 

“Repeat it,” He urges, mind swimming in fear. 

And in a horrifying moment, you smile – too wide, too sweet, too hungry. 

You smile, and a burst of crows scream through the sky; you smile, a sinister lurking glint within; you smile, and the roses surrounding you begin to wilt away. You smile and his heart stops cold. 

But just as it came, it drops – and with a blink, that filmy haze that had overtaken your rigid muscles melts, and you’re left; the delicate petals of a flowered girl, shaking your head slightly up to him as the sun beams down a chilly breath of light unto your face. 

 “I don’t… I can’t recall.” 

With a blink, your eyes meet his and they are pure, free from any such emotion, nor turmoil; instead, you float before him in your sweet sway. 

Jacaerys feels the shift within the air, watches as you slip on some masque that you hope he does not detect – but his hair stands on end. 

You smile ever so kindly, eternally; his hands tremble, though still, after it all: Still, he wishes to remain there with you, in that smile. 

“Forgive me, my Prince, I- I seemed to have lost myself. I’m so terribly sorry.” 

The sun has clambered its way out from the sheets of clouds above; in a ray upon you, your hair glows – and despite the dread, the dubiety which swarms his mind, Jacaerys cannot help the small smile which crawls upon his lips, weary and hesitant as it is. 

A cursed girl, you are – this, he cannot deny; but, a voice whispers in his mind, what is a curse but the gods’ way of shaping fate into flesh? 

And gods, your flesh, so alive and shivering under his touch; you, your cursed smile and that flickering laughter that follows through the garden. That tantalizing fear, the unease which grips him and makes him feel alive – which makes him bloom. 

With that slip, fades the memory of why indeed he was so upset in the first place; scared, perhaps, of some small spook? Your eyelashes flutter atop your cheeks, you breathe the fresh air as a painter does to canvas, your fingers playing with his own – and he dares chastise you for it? Guilt swirls in his chest, and he knows that he must gather himself lest he do something unbecoming. 

The thought of such strikes him. He must return to the castle, it is much past the hour. The council waits. 

“I must go,” He murmurs, jaw tensing as your eyes flash in that possessive jump; though you meekly nod, eyes casting towards the earth, where vines have retreated to the statue behind him. “I’ve to go to council.” 

The breeze carries the floral scent of your hair. “Come back later.” You ask – though it is more of a command, one which sends a chill down his spine. And perhaps it is simply that; being wanted, to be loved or cared for simply because he is himself – it causes him to nod gently, caressing your icy cheek with the back of his fingers. 

Jacaerys shivers at the devotion in your eyes, that swimming, searching gaze of eager affection. His palms find your own, and that distinct hunger – for the fruits which linger throughout the garden’s smells – reclaims him. 

“I wish not to frighten you, Jacaerys.” You whisper – and it is in this sentence that he finds some kind of understanding – for you, nor he, wish to speak aloud what harrowing things he knows to be true; this garden rots, and somewhere within it, so do you. 

“I only wish for some company.” 

A pang of regret echoes within his chest – what sharp tone and tongue he’d taken with you today, when all you wished for was a hand to hold and a voice to speak with. When all you wished for was him, as he wishes for you. 

“You do not frighten me,” He lies through his teeth, and perhaps he looks away intentionally when he sees that sinister grin flash over you in a shadow of a moment; though when he returns to your visage, it is clear and sweet as the day is bright. “If I could…” A swallow, biting his lip in knowledge of what he is about to admit. “If I could, my love, I’d stay with you.” 

You shake your head with a slight desperation. “You can,” You whisper, a sudden, light pressure of something held up towards his chest – and Jacaerys needs not look into your palm to see the handful of fruits within your grasp, held out in offering. 

Still a hunger, a desire courses through him – here, it is only peace – but he instead shakes his head once more. “My mother needs me,” He whispers, chest burning with a decision; though gods ruin him if he dares leave you alone again. A clench in his heart at your rejected nod, though you smile smally.

Your palm, cool as winter’s kiss, cups his jaw; with a sweet kiss to the corner of his lips, you whisper to him. “You are quite wonderfully made, Jacaerys. Your mother is lucky to have such a son.” You whisper dreamily; a faint memory tugging in his mind as some daze settles the ache of his mind. “I am truly quite fond of you.” 

His eyes flicker, and when you press up to kiss him upon the lips, he feels a torn longing to remain with you, just a moment longer. 

There is a war to be fought, he reminds himself – and he chooses his family; he chooses his mother, as she would choose him. 

And he leaves you in the garden. 

IT IS UNNATURAL, JACAERYS THINKS, TO LEAVE HIS MOTHER’S CHAMBERS SO OFTEN WITH TEARS IN HIS EYES. 

Perhaps, any other night, he’d have remained to continue his plea; though now, his hands tremble and his throat burns with unshed emotion, legs carrying him quick through the suffocating walls of the Queen’s apartment. 

There is no true beauty to the end of the day – not now, not after he’d left each bruised, battered word within his mind upon the cold stone floor before her. There is nothing left for him now. 

Perhaps on a sunnier eve, Jacaerys would think with a smile wry and amused, how he seems to find the garden when there is nowhere else to go; yet tonight, he knows. 

You are the place to go – and the garden, with its whispers and watching eyes, with its churning familiarity; that is what he so seeks as he stumbles once more through the gates, too beside himself to brother with pretense. 

The sharp gathering of his mother’s visage after his watery plea; a choice, one which twists a rusty dagger and pulls the final thread of sanity which he’d so foolishly clung to. 

He calls your name for only a few moments before you appear.

Just as the day he met you, at the end of the hedgeway, lingering in that odd, half-standing lilt you oft regain when you suspect nobody is looking; and your hair wild and loose, covering your visage as you hide. 

A relief it is to see such a face, even as you slither from the shadows with a breath of his name. 

A relief it is to finally be where he wants to be. Where he is wanted. 

His knees crumble to the earth before you, and you go down once more with him. 

Your hands fall to his arms, pulling you to him; and in that motion, in the lack of breath he takes in pressing himself into you, he wonders if you know. Somehow, you know what he is feeling – for you wipe his tears with an anguished expression, as if you’d been within those walls when he’d begged his mother not to pursue it. 

A beg, delivered as some grasp for what once was, what may now never be - a gaping anxiety, one which has festered and built his entire existence - and has just spilled over and bled onto the thin tapestry of life stitched and remaining between him and his mother. 

And his mother - the Queen - staring back at him, face hardening with each breath he took, trying to repress the sting of choice. She’s made her choice, he thinks - she has chosen herself.

He has chosen her time and time again, forsaken everything for her; and she has made her decision. 

It is with barely a few words Jacaerys chokes out, whimpered and anguished, any semblance of explanation; though you sit with him through it, brushing his curls back and letting him gather his thoughts in the quiet dying light of the peaceful garden. 

The fiery death of the sun lingers even as night sky begins its flirting tease; streaks of fading plum which kiss into the ocean far away. 

Time passes with quiet peace. 

Jacaerys’ breathing is calm. A numbing tranquility seeps through him, his breaths falling from his lips with your own, humming a gentle lull under the statue. The vines have fallen to their sleepy, weeping ways; the night comes, and after some time, you rise in your white gown and offer a hand for him. 

The sun sinks its bloody bite into the coastline when you lead Jacaerys into the winding path; a mournful glow, with leaning flowers and wilting willows of vines which weep with his own sullen emptiness. 

His hand shakes within yours – but your grasp is strong and sure, squeezing just once as he lingers past the maiden statue, the serpent coiling up her leg. 

She is so very tragic in the waking moon’s light. His voice is raw when it comes, wistful, absent. “It always seemed as though she was made in your eyes.” 

Your gaze slides from the statue – a serene visage with a lilt of envy – and your grip tightens upon his own. 

“Men see what they wish to see.” 

Your words, a distant echo of a long-forgotten conversation – you pull him along the path with a small glance back at the statue, as if wary it follows behind him. “If I may speak truthfully,” Your tone wilts with the betrayal of envy, “I would find it rather lonely, lying there moon after moon.” 

Jacaerys is rather accustomed by this time to your odd words; and though he registers the odd resentment with which you spit the sentiment, he only watches you – perhaps concerned that, in a way, you might be fading to the clutch of time as well. 

And so he leaves your words in the floral air of the garden; a stronger smell than most at this hour; and the blaring ache within his mind eases when you finally lead him to the clearing he’s dreamt of ceaselessly since his first visit. 

The fig tree blossoms as if it is the first spry wink of spring.

Flowers blooming, dripping leaves of ambrosial scent which yield to plump fruits, even in the mooned night; divine, he thinks with a slow churn of pleasure within his veins. This place is divine. 

 A cloak of warmth over his shoulders – the weeping branches as he ducks below, staggering fuzzily under the alluring hunger which churns within his gut. 

And in some miserable way, perhaps Jacaerys clings to the promise you’d laid: He comes here, you’d said, to the fig tree. Lucerys. Though his brother does not appear before his eyes, nor does the pain of fate – instead, a pleasant calm which placates his edged nerves. 

A place rather tucked away from the harshness of fate, the fig tree seems to keen into his frame; and though his grief has spilled over, in your gaze he finds a warmth, a patience.

Your hand, slow as if approaching a wounded stag, brushes away a strand of hair which tangles within his lashes – a pang in his chest at such unknowing kindness, at such genuine, aloof acceptance. The proof is there for all to see – and yet, you, seeing; you do not mind. You never have. 

Whatever composure he’d managed to hold is shattered within the raw affection he now feels; and with a shaky breath, he slumps against the trunk. 

“What troubles you, my love?” Your voice a melody, the vision behind his closed eyes of a sickeningly hungry smile unmatched by the sweet tone of voice. It clutches him; to be wanted. 

And what if one of your baseborn, silver-haired dragonriders decide that he wants to rule the Seven Kingdoms? 

“My mother,” he confesses in a whisper, voice tight; wounded flesh of heart bleeding raw from his lips. “She willingly strips my claim to legitimacy in search of her own war.” 

Your brows furrow in that way he has etched to memory – and with a shaky lift, he soothes away the furrow with his thumb, swiping his fingers gently across your visage. 

It is with the blossom of nightshade with which you keen into his touch; a bloom of affection, desperate as you sigh. Just as so, your fingers press gently into his scalp, carding through his curls; the ache in his mind is eased, a fuzzy hunger, some euphoria washing through him. 

“Jace,” you murmur, voice incredibly distant, “She is blinded by the fate of… distant songs, of distant omens. But I see you. I’ve always seen you.” 

There is something odd about your tone; some revel, an ancient knowledge that brings hairs to end upon his nape – but he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch for some comfort. 

A shaky breath as his lips press to your palm, fighting the sting of emotion. “Vermax has fallen ill inexplicably. Joff is gone. Luke…” His voice fractures at his brother’s name, the memory so sharp; some laden innocence he’d clung on to in his grief. A life, slipping thinner than sand through his fingers. 

A familiar urge, one he cannot tamp as tears fall unbidden from his eyes; and you, with a soft gasp as he presses his forehead to your own cold one. 

There is an itch low in his mind; a humming, a distant hunger which leaks through the cracks splintered in the remnants of his headache. The fig tree branches sway – above your head grows a beautiful purple fruit, heavy and bursting with rich life, with the churning cycle of soil, with earth, gods, fruit. Your skin freezes his own. 

“I’ll do it.” 

An unsettling urge within him – one not entirely his own, perhaps. Your eyes widen larger than the narrow sea.

A slow wettening of your lips as you shake your head, plush lips glistening and pinkened; Jacaerys yearns to see such pure sweetness dripping with the juices of those fruits once more, to feel your body writhe with his own, pleasure and hunger and you, you, you. You and him. 

“Jacaerys,” your voice, gentle, wary; though your eyes scream otherwise, a sickening smile crawling across your faint features under the moon. 

Your fingers, icicles upon his feverish skin, a balm over the hatred which coils dejected in his gut. Your lips part again, and he must resist the urge to bite upon such soft flesh, some monstrous hunger growing and spurting and whispering to eat, eat. Eat. 

“You should not act so brash. Not when–” 

“Just a taste, my love.” He interrupts, trembling yet unconvicted – desperate in his plea, as though a drop of the fruit’s nectar might heal the gaping misery that has spread at the harsh of the world’s truths. 

Trembling palms slither around his shoulders, grasping him as you gather an untainted inhale, unspoiled. 

And his eyes, glued upon your worried lips, your eyes blown wide in hunger, in that stirring way he felt last time he reposed under this very fig tree. 

A sin, perhaps – but the most delicious, the most innocent of sin in a world so rotted and decaying. 

There is a moment long suspended in air, in which your gaze burns into Jacaerys’ own. His heart races, growing more hungry by the moment, fingertips aching as he lets his hands explore your pliant flesh – over each soft fold of fabric, over each frigid expanse of skin. A divine touch; otherworldly. 

Otherworldly. 

He does not see you reach above you for the fruit – he does, though, see the flickering gleam in your eyes as you split apart the dusting blush of flesh; and he, forever enraptured with his desire for you, with your beauty, blinks as you hold up half the fruit. 

Earthy, rich, forbidden – a sweet scent that lulls him forward, binding him with you as his eyes trace the glisten of the fruit’s nectar down your soft, sweet hand. 

In a blink, he sees that horrid vision once more; shrouded silver in the moonlight, dark streaks blossom and spread upon your pristine dress with each breath you take; from your breast and stomach, it leaks out and begins to tremble your fingers. Blood, his mind whispers – no, dirt. 

But your hand is held out, and in a blink the vision is gone; you’re before him with hopeful, hungry eyes and a bitten lip, unbreathing, unblinking. 

Coiled, lying in wait. 

He takes the fruit into his own grasp, marveling at the soft sensation, how hungry your eyes cling to his grasp. 

Fingers milky pale in the moonlight glisten with the blood of the fruit; and he raises it, slowly until he can feel the chill of your breath kiss along his knuckles, see your tongue dart out in salacious hunger as you gaze moltenly between the fruit’s flesh and his own. 

That hunger, that longing devours him whole as he stares. It is all he can do to swallow a thick rise of arousal as he desperately presses the flesh of the fig to your mouth, fingers lingering; firm. 

You part your lips easily – so easy – and taste the sweetness; a cold sensation shivers down his spine, mind fuzzier with each moment as the juice drips and runs over his knuckles, chasing the tributaries of veins which split and run down his forearm. 

Your hand catches upon his wrist, chilling as you moan at the taste. 

His lips part, a burst of desire spiraling as his mind clouds, a ravenous hunger as you slowly slide into his lap with slithering skirts. 

 Jacaerys groans into the silence of the garden, unable to maintain his composure as you lean forward, pressing his fingers further into your mouth. Upon your tongue is the kiss of winter; and he watches, helplessly entranced as your tongue catches the last traces from his fingers – a simmering invitation when your eyes meet his own hungering gaze. 

The rind of the fruit falls forgotten into the soil.

Your lips glisten so dark, he almost believes it is blood. 

Your lips find his own. 

A burst of pleasure, unbidden within his groin when your tongue presses to his – familiar, yes, euphoric; but satiating that hunger, yet multiplying it. 

Jacaerys pulls you closer by your hips, fingers sticky with the remnants of the fig, his mind reeling with ecstasy at the taste of you, the taste of the fruit; the taste of the Garden. 

In the heartbeat of silence when you pull away, his chest rises sharply – your breath kisses his own and he makes one final decision; with a glance back towards the castle, Jacaerys leans towards you once more. 

His breath fans in a plume of fog – it is cold in the garden, with you so precariously in his lap, yet Jacaerys burns. 

You wait for him with bated breath, the fruit hovering just before his parted, covetous lips. 

Jace’s gaze does not leave yours when he leans forward and slowly takes the fruit against his lips, bursts of heat flickering with stabs of ice as you gasp, watching with eyes maliciously ravenous, glistened lips parted. 

He breathes you in, gaze half-lidded as his tongue presses gently against the fruit within your grasp. 

Your whimper is soft and yet it sets him ablaze; an ambrosial taste, one which leaves his mind spinning, any anguish previously thought melts away – it is difficult, he realizes, to determine where you end and the fig begins. 

Softly, at first; grazing his teeth along your skin, shivering through his very spine when you shift your hips, sucking in an inhale of pleasure yourself – and the juices which slip down your own hand, which flood his mouth unlike anything he’s before felt. 

Though it is not enough to break the skin of the fruit, and you grow impatient; if his eyes were any less lidded, perhaps he’d have seen the malicious hunger swimming in your sweet gaze. 

You press the fruit into his mouth. 

He bites. 

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[gremlin-girly]

Flufftober Day 14

@flufftober

Prompt: Mundane AU

Alt Title: One Piece at A Time

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x f!Reader

Tags/warnings: Dean being Dean tbh (big ol' warning there), FLUFF, meetcute (I really like these apparently ahaha), Dean is a Mechanic, Sammy Stayed in law school :), John is still dead (I still hate him), Reader knows nothing about cars, 2nd person (female  Reader – use of "lady" once), tattooed! Dean, this is 10000% a grumpy x sunshine now that I think about it

Summary: You have car trouble and head to the nearest mechanic, Singer & Son, where your grumpy mechanic gives you an earful for not taking care of your car.

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: I may or may not have scared my own mechanic with these things. Mechanics fear me. And if you know Johnny Cash, you'll recognise the title of this piece!

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Nothing in particular made you choose Singer & Son Garage as your new mechanic of choice. Reviews were good and it was near your house; you were sold. When you had left your car with the wizened Bobby singer, he had told you that your car should be ready in two days.

That was four days ago.

It was only supposed to be an annual check-up, ensuring everything was in working order. Which it was - when you'd left it at the garage. It drove nicely from point A to B, other than the strange rattling that had started a month ago (or the weird noise when you'd use the wipers). So, when you rang the garage on the afternoon on the 4th day, you certainly weren't expecting to get gruff, clearly annoyed answers from one of the mechanics.

"So... is the car okay?" You asked nervously, beginning to worry about the cost to fix or if there was a scam taking place.

“Yeah. You could say that. “ There’s a scoff and you can practically  see the eyeroll on the faceless person on the other end of the line.

"Uh... Okay? When can I pick it up? " You frown into the phone, unsure what he meant but bit back an indignant huff.

There's a pause. “This evening, if you want I guess. Look lady - I don't know what you did to this car but there's a lot of work that needs to be done. " The voice's annoyance seems to grow but you can't fathom why. “You’ll need to come down so we can discuss what needs done and book it all in.”

Your frown deepens. You weren't well-versed in cars and you were so far out of your depth you weren't sure if you were being ripped off.

"Uh. sure. Just give me a time."

“16:45 work?"

You check your work calendar. "Yeah. "

There's a grunt of approval. "Alright. See you then. "

 The phone clicks off and you're left staring at your phone in disbelief. You even blink a few times at the black screen of your phone. What crawled up his ass and died? The car was okay - that's all that mattered.

You sigh, mentally preparing for your bank account to break.

At 16:40 you wander into the garage, poking your head into the small office. Bobby Singer looks the exact same as he did four days ago, just in a different colour plaid. He's still tired-eyed with a phone pressed to his ear, hidden behind a mountain of paperwork. You give him a small wave and a smile when he glanced at the doorway.

He put his hand over the phone and waved you in. "Hey, again. Here for your car?"

You nod and wring your hands awkwardly. You feel like you're in the principal's office about to get an earful. Bobby gives you a short smile before speaking into an intercom.

"Dean, customer here to collect."

Silence.

“Dean,” He says a little louder. “Customer here to collect."

More silence.

You look around the office sheepishly when Bobby sighs.

"Sorry Sammy, your brother's not answering. Give me a sec,” He says gently into the phone before yelling into the intercom. "DEAN!"

His sudden yell made you jump half an inch into the air and he shot you an apologetic smile. Whoever Sammy is, he must be saying something to Bobby because he huffs into the phone. "He's playing his damn music to loud. Again.”

There's a clang of metal and the gruff voice from earlier calls out from behind you, causing you to turn. “Yeah?"

Stood leaning against the door is probably one of the most attractive men you've ever seen. He's wearing a white tank although you're not sure why; he's covered in grease and oil head to toe looking like a dishevelled dalmatian. His strong, tanned arms are littered with tattoos and your eyes trail to his ringed hands that are wiping a wrench clean with a dirty rag, that he then tucks into dirty blue overalls that have the arms tied at his waist.

Bobby nods in your direction and in a sarcastic tone says, "Customer."

Dean’s  green eyes cast a glance at you quizzically like he'd forgotten you were coming. Then he looks like he's about to roll them as he realises who you are. “Follow me.”

Dean leads you out back, where ACDC is playing from an old, beat-up greasy radio. You try not to stare, occupying your mind instead with trying to spot your car. It's like a car graveyard; tens if not hundreds of cars in various states of repair are scattered around the lot.

Your nervousness grows the more you walk until you see your car. Or more accurately, what's left of it. It's on a jack and one of the wheels is on the floor. It looks okay, all things considered. You guess that Dean must have been messing with you.

"It's fine!" You say, relieved. Dean shoots you a glare.

"It's not fine." He grunts. "Your suspension is rusted on the front and back, two of your tyre treads are below legal limit, one of your reverse lights is out and the rubber on your windscreen wipers is missing."

You stare blankly at him. "Meaning..."

"Meaning," Dean continues. "Your car should not be on the road."

"Ah," You say, dumbfounded. It was working four days ago just fine, and you tell Dean as much. He just scoffs.

"I don't know how that car did not blow up on you." He crosses his arms across his chest. "There's a lot of work that needs done."

Now your nerves were waking up again and spinning into a frenzy. "H-How much are we talking?"

Dean scratches the back of his head and heaves a sigh, looking thoughtfully at the skeleton of your car. "Maybe a grand. Could be more, depending on parts."

You almost swoon at the price. It was cheaper than buying a new car but that was the kind of money you did not have at hand. "Could I just get.. five hundred dollars worth of repairs?"

You look hopefully at Dean who frowns and then sighs. "Some of the repairs are a quick fix. If you're willing - I could show you how to fix 'em. That'll knock down the price."

You're so happy you could cry. "Thank you so much. That - That's really kind." You give Dean a grateful smile but he turns his head away from you quickly, clearing his throat.

"We'll get it done one piece at a time." He reassures you, voice slightly less grumpy. Only slightly.

"So... can I take it home?" You ask curiously, bouncing your foot on a tyre.

"No, I can't let you leave in it because it will fall apart." Dean huffs. "Sorry, but you'll be without the car if we're doing it bit by bit."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." He huffs, scowling at you.

Walking everywhere would be good for you. It was better than being down a whole grand.

"Look, I can drop you home since you came all the way here. I needed you to see what you'd done to the poor thing." Dean starts to walk back towards Bobby's office, you following his lead.

"I can walk." You insist, eager to not piss Dean off anymore than he already seems to be with you. "It's not far I swear."

Dean still huffs. "No, I'll drive you. Bobby'd kill me if he knew I let you walk home in the dark anyway."

You open your mouth to argue, but he gives you a steely look that tells you he isn't up for debating you; it's happening whether you like it or not. You smile awkwardly and mumble your thanks, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as Dean grabs a set of keys.

"C'mon, we'll take Baby."

You're brows furrow slightly, unsure whom he's calling baby, but teeter behind him.

Baby, as it happened, was a car.

You pull a face but as you drift by the sleek black exterior and peer at the black leather seats, drawing a short breath of awe.

Baby looked sexy.

You can't ever recall thinking a car looked sexy, but Baby was. Especially with Dean in the driver's seat. You slide into the passenger side and close the door with care, terrified to be too rough. Baby smells like car oil and pine and unlike Dean she is pristine. You buckle up and place your hands awkwardly in your lap as Dean turns the key. Baby's engine doesn't roar to life like your hunk of junk - she purrs - setting a steady rumble as Dean's strong arm reaches behind you so he can reverse out of the parking space carefully.

"Do you mind if I...?" Dean points at the car radio once on a short stretch of road and you shrug.

"Go ahead."

Dean turns the dial and Led Zepplin fades in through the speakers. You tap your foot along to the beat, you don't know the song but you do recognise it. After a few moments, you can hear Dean humming along to the lyrics, checking his mirrors at a junction and you bite back a smile. When he wasn't being such a grump, he was actually kind of cute.

The car ride was mostly silent until you got to a busy stretch of road and some asshole just had to dangerously cut up Baby, narrowly missing the car by a few centimetres had Dean not swerved. However, as Dean swerved, you'd slid down the seat and knocked into his shoulder with a squeak of surprise.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yells at the driver, laying on the horn. He looks down at you worried. "You okay?"

You blink up at him, wide-eyed with slightly dishevelled hair. Your heart is racing fast from the near-miss but when your eyes lock with his, heat rushes to your cheeks and you can't seem to sit up fast enough.

"S-sorry. I'm alright." You clear your throat and give him a sheepish smile but he bursts into laughter. "What?"

Dean points at his cheek, snickering. "You have some oil on your face."

"I do?" You pull down the mirror and inspect your face and sure enough, there's a big black smudge on your cheek. The oil from Dean's clothes must have rubbed off when you knocked into him. "Oh, Goddammit." You rub at the smudge, only making it worse.

"Hey, stop that." Dean tuts, glancing back over at you from the road. "Dish soap and water'll make that come right off."

"Oh - thanks. Ah! This street right up ahead. That's me."

Dean grunts and nods, turning into your street gliding up to the curb outside your house. The engine cuts out and on autopilot you unbuckle yourself. Dean watches quietly but doesn't say anything.

"Thanks again," You say, hand on the door handle and flashing Dean a smile. "I don't know how I could repay you for my car."

His cheeks flush pink. Usually, this was where he'd flirt shamelessly, but something about you had his chest feeling tight and his stomach rolling. He finds himself thinking about how you were looking up at him when you'd knocked into him and how his heart fluttered. How he'd willingly offered his unpaid services to fix your car (even if you were supposed to help). How he'd nonchalantly decided to drive you home in Baby of all the cars on the lot. Dean swallows thickly.

"Maybe... dinner?"

"Dinner?" Your eyebrows fly up and you stop opening the passenger door. You falter for a moment before smiling at him, blush back in full force. "Uh, yeah, sure. I'd like dinner."

Dean's hands grip the steering wheel tightly, turning his knuckles white. He nods and struggles to find his voice for a moment.

"When's good?"

"Tonight's good. Or Friday." You say watching him with a small smile. He looks like he's not used to asking someone out on a real date. You decide to help him out a bit. "There's a really good burger joint on Winston Street. We could go there."

Dean’s eyes glitter when he looks over at you, breaking into a grin. "You mean Diego's?"

"Yeah, that's the one. Best burgers I've ever had." You tilt your head slightly at him. "You been before? We could go somewhere-"

"It's my favourite." Dean interrupts. "I'd love to take you there."

Your heart thunders and you nod, beaming at him. "Alright then, it's a date."

"It's a date." He says, a smirk twitching on his lips.

Once you and Dean have said your goodbyes and you're safely tucked against the wood of your front door you slump against it sighing dreamily. Friday couldn't come quick enough.

[jisokai]

If you cross the river (will the fighting end?)

Contrary to what granny once said, Kita thinks he won't ever truly know who you are. You are the one who waits by the river, watching as he scrubs dirt from fresh carrots and dirty shovels. You are the one whose presence lingers like mist over his skin when you part. You are the one whose eyes he always feels, at every moment—the eyes granny reminds him of when they wipe the floor or prepare a meal together.

You are the one who knows that it does not matter, that he would still perform his rituals and hold unwavering conviction even if you were not there. Because he is Kita; he is Shin-chan—repetition, perseverance, and diligence is how he lives...because it simply feels good.

You are the same, committed to your duty to watch him from the moment you were pulled from the glory of a summit. And he is committed to being watched by you.

shinsuke kita x GN reader character study for shin, reader is a river/rain spirit, themes of disaster, mentions of dying/minor character death, fluff and angst, slow burn (i think), slight spoilers for haikyuu!! timeskip 20.3k words | oneshot, complete

notes: This fic is set around the premise that Kita's gran lives in the mountains of eastern Hyogo, just above Osaka. I have his parents living in the city while Kita is cared for by granny until it's time for him to start school, around 6 years old. He goes to Osaka during the school year and no longer spends time in the mtns. Since canon doesn't offer a whole lot of information, I took liberties with the setting and backstory to fit the plot of my fic. I hope this can help negate any potential confusion! + (It's another fic spanning childhood to adulthood. With a magical reader. I am unfortunately not able to escape my own tropes.) + shoutout to this fic for inspiration

ao3 option

One moment you are a carefree being, gleefully running along a series of falls wedged along the mountain summit. The sun is setting and you are soaking in the glory of the day: with swaying leaves and shimmering droplets, and the last bit of light streaming through pockets of trees.

The next you are falling, rolling, bumping your way through the water. A current sweeps you away without warning, your vision goes dark, and you have left your place above the sun to land in the depths of a looming valley. You have to carry onwards, knowing there is no going back, so you search for the one who brought you here.

There is a dim light beyond the bank. It seeps from the open screen of a traditional-style house, illuminating the wooden beams and eaves from behind. It's a bedroom, with a small boy dutifully putting his futon down for the night, smoothing out the bumps and lining the base to be in its exact spot. He has salt and pepper hair and you think he is the youngest old person you will ever see. He never looks your way, but you sense that he knows you are watching.

So you watch, now that you're here.

"Granny, who's that?"

He is a toddler, carried along the path next to the river by his grandmother, a thin arm clutching him tightly against her hip. Her eyes slowly move from his face to his finger pointing towards the water. She can't see what he sees: another child, waist deep in the gentle rapids, mysteriously faded—like a mist lingering instead of wafting to the sky. She smiles gently when she understands, bringing a hand to pat his hair softly.

"You'll learn when the time is right, Shin-chan."

She knows how this story will go.

Someone is always watching, Shin-chan.

Kita's life is built upon the small things he does everyday, and the end results are no more than a byproduct of that.

Someone is watching over you.

Rain streams down the mountain gullies and pools in the river at the center of the valley.

The sun rises. Over and over and over again.

Childhood

The morning light streams through open screens, crawling up the veranda and into the adjacent interior. It’s the beginning of June—cleaning day, the tatami mats moved aside for inspection and rotation while Kita and granny scrub the wooden floors together. Foam bubbles from the rag when he wrings it out, excess water trickling into the bucket. He wipes it across the floor of their living room, watching carefully as the wood darkens slightly, but not too much, leaving shiny streaks and stray bubbles behind. He smiles to himself gently.

A grin tugs at granny as she watches from the opposite side of the room. It was Shin-chan’s own decision to clean with her today. He gave her no reason as he simply said, “I’ll help,” when she grabbed her bucket and rags. He already started pulling the mats aside, then struggled to move the table in the center by himself. Granny chuckles to herself at the recollection before returning her attention to the floor, her section a little lighter than Kita's.

He looks to her side and the faintest crease appears between his brows, a slight purse of his lips. When he wrings out his towel again, he pulls the ends a little tighter before bringing it back to the floor with a new gentleness. The result brings the twitch of a smile to his mouth. It makes him feel good.

From outside, he hears the rustling of leaves, creaking as bamboo sways in a light breeze, and the scrapes of shrubs against the house. The morning is cool, bringing in air that will hopefully linger as the day drags on. The only chatter comes from the birds, quick raps of storks in the river and singing sparrows in the trees. Kita feels a warmth, one from inside, as he listens. Focuses.

He thinks it could be praise, from the spirits that are watching.

It’s still morning when they finish, the mats brushed and switched with the ones in the closet. After they return the table to the center of the room, granny quietly thanks Kita for his help. He only nods in return. Quiet Shin-chan. He thinks he’ll read until lunch, or maybe help some more if granny plans to work in the garden.

She interrupts his thoughts. “Let’s go for a walk, to Fujiwara-san’s.”

Kita's brow furrows ever so slightly, but he nods. Granny sometimes likes to visit the neighbors, though without any clear pattern or schedule. He thinks she might be doing it for him, so he can talk with other kids his age, especially with his sister always gone to a friend’s and his baby brother in the city. He would rather read, but agrees regardless since it’s granny asking.

They slip their feet into sandals and start down the path along the river, towards the right. Kita reaches for granny’s hand and she smiles down at the top of his hair. They walk slowly along pebbles and dirt, accompanied by the sound of water rushing next to them. Eventually they approach a bridge, granny having to grasp the railing as she walks up the steps. When she reaches the center of the river she pauses, a ritual, to watch the water run by.

“Fujiwara-san said he has exciting news,” granny offers in a delayed explanation. Kita doesn’t respond. 

Granny takes another minute to step down on the other end of the bridge and continue walking. They go left, towards the house that sits opposite of theirs. It takes slightly longer with the incline, but it’s quaint and Kita feels no hurry.

The house is open when they arrive, doors aside to let the last cool minutes waft through. There’s nobody home, however, and Kita looks up to granny curiously after they step onto the exterior veranda.

She only offers a smile as they wait a few moments. His attention is diverted when he hears the thumping of footsteps, small and quick, getting closer. They’re followed by Fujiwara’s muffled voice, worried. Kita's hand tightens in granny’s as he watches closely.

Out runs a child, his age, tracking dark footprints along the tatami mats from the back entrance. Not just with dirt, but smudges of mud, smearing on the woven grass. His chest tightens at the sight and he has the urge to scold, to clean the mess, but then he feels eyes on him and—

That watchful gaze he remembers clearly, despite only seeing it once, years ago. A gaze he still feels everyday, most intently at night. You are grown, but only as much as he is. And you’re…real. With a weight and embodiment, a person instead of a misty image on the river’s surface. You’re also brighter, both in appearance and spirit, as you put a small handful of grapes (fat and crisp and green) into your mouth (skin and seeds included) and chew quickly before swallowing and smiling widely at him. 

Again, Kita wants to protest the sight, tell you the skin is dirty and you can’t eat seeds, but the words are trapped. Something is tugging at his chest—something other than his apprehension, something that makes him want to physically step forward.

But then Fujiwara-san is rushing in, though not very quickly. He’s another old-timer in the village, with crinkly eyes and little hair remaining on his head, paired with a thin physique and hunch in his back. In one hand he carries a woven basket, filled with more bunches of grapes, shiny and wet. In the other is a wooden cane, pale with a reddish tint—Kita thinks maple. The old man never needed one before, and Kita wonders what’s changed.

He looks back to you, the one change he’s aware of.

“Shinsuke-kun,” his thoughts are interrupted by the call of his name. He hasn’t been listening, he realizes, and he turns his attention to the grandpa. “This is one of my grandchildren. My daughter has been busier with work lately.”

Kita, for a third time, wants to protest. He’s met all of Fujiwara-san’s grandchildren before, and if he hadn’t, granny would have certainly told him about another five year old. He doesn’t know how to respond, can’t, and so he watches blankly. You are smiling at him the entire time, with a joy he doesn’t understand—at least, not entirely.

(There is a tightness in his chest at the sight of you, like it wants to expand beyond its capability. He’s not sure what that means.)

“Have some grapes!” you exclaim in a soft voice, thrusting the bunch towards him. Two fall from the force of your sharp movements, and he watches as they roll on the ground, leaving another stain. He doesn’t accept them, just continues to stare at the mess.

Granny fights a smile as she encourages him. “Let’s try some Shin-chan.”

He wants to say that he’s already had them before. He knows they will be delicious and crunchy and refreshing, especially now that the heat is rising with the sun. He knows that Fujiwara’s grapes are the best, and now two have been wasted and splattered on the tatami. Instead of reprimanding you, he reaches his arm out to take the bundle. Since granny asked.

His eyes widen when you then crouch to pick up the fallen fruit from the floor and eat them (skin and seeds included) without so much as wiping them off.

Who are you?

The faintest tug on his hand makes him turn to granny, who’s pulling one off the bundle he’s holding to give it a taste. “They’re delicious as always,” she says. “I’m surprised it’s such an early harvest.”

Fujiwara smiles, eyes crinkling further. “Snow came early this winter,” he reminds her.

She hums thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. The weather has been quite unusual this year.”

Unusual, Kita wonders to himself. Because of you.

You smile at him again and that inexplicable tightness arises in his chest once more. He frowns, the first genuine frown of displeasure today. His mind tells him to ask granny if he can go home, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t understand how that could be possible, to want and not want something at the same time. His frown deepens.

Kita thinks his time at Fujiwara-san’s is excruciating. Kita is also hesitant to leave when granny says it’s time to go. He misses a knowing smile that rests on her face as she tugs him gently, watching as he glances back during their walk home.

You are nosy. Kita was already aware, given he could feel you watching him at every moment, even when he can’t see you. But you are nosy when you are physically near him. And you are around him often now, nearly every day for the past week. Whether you simply show up at random or granny is pulling him along to Fujiwara’s, Kita learns that being around you is inescapable, inevitable. 

At the very least you aren’t noisy, just curious. At granny’s you quietly hover whenever Kita switches tasks or activities, a ghost floating over his shoulder. Once you’ve fulfilled whatever interest you have, you keep to yourself in your own part of the room. You’re helpful in the garden, for some reason, but you make him grimace when you pull a carrot directly from the ground and take a bite, dirt and all. You don’t help him wash the harvest, just crouch next to him by the river water and watch his hands diligently scrub.

You are, however, incredibly messy. It’s as if you don’t even register what a mess is, mud and leaves and water following you everywhere. Always. Trekking through the door with bare feet, smudges of grime trailing behind, sometimes with dripping hair—undried hair—that leaves dark circles and puddles on the mats and wood.

Every time it happens his chest flares with irritation, that urge to scold you. But granny is near, so he says nothing and instead looks at her intently. Granny only ever smiles back, sometimes handing him a towel and reminding him that he can help, if he wants. He doesn’t want to. He’s not sure why the adults haven’t explained it to you, surely Fujiwara-san can’t keep up with the cleaning he must have to do to house you. If Kita and granny always have to scrub your mess after you visit, Fujiwara must be mopping every hour. Sometimes they clean when you’re here, while you just sit and watch, only to dirty the floor again the following day.

After a week of this passes and you show up again, uninvited and with your bare feet leaving mud on the veranda, he caves.

“Don’ come around here if yer jus’ gonna make a mess,” he says firmly—but also quietly, wary of granny’s proximity. Why do you always enter through the veranda anyways—not the genkan, where the mess would be easier to contain?

You don’t appear deterred, smiling as you hold up a basket. “I brought you grapes, Shin-chan.”

He blinks. “That’s kind,” he admits, “but I don’ want ‘em.”

“Well I do,” Granny’s sweet voice says from behind him. Kita tenses when he hears it, turns to look at her guiltily. Her calm, smiling face makes him uneasy.

He starts to protest, those disagreements he felt a week ago, since the moment she wanted to go to Fujiwara’s, bubble up together. “But gran—”

“Shin-chan,” she cuts him off. Her voice is gentle and soft, but holds a different kind of firmness that Kita can’t deliver. One that makes him listen, because he has to.

“It’s okay,” you say, interrupting the conversation that would have followed. You’re still smiling, unfazed. It flames Kita's annoyance, while calming his nerves. Again, he doesn’t understand these feelings. “I’ll go home if Shin-chan wants me to.”

The boy’s eyes widen at that, heart plummeting as if he’s done something wrong. Why do I care? he immediately wonders. Maybe because granny is watching over his shoulder, or because Fujiwara-san seemed so happy to have his not-actually-grandkid (Kita is still certain) around his house. He doesn’t know what home you’re referring to, Fujiwara’s or the city or…somewhere else. Regardless, it would be easier if you went back and let them rest, granny especially, since she must be tired from the extra chores. He still hasn’t answered, caught between wanting to agree, waiting to disagree. He’s not sure which part of him wants what.

Instead of caving to his irritation for a second time today, he sighs and says, “It’s fine…jus’ wash yer feet.” He realizes he’s resolved to clean up after you so granny doesn’t have to. What is he doing?

“Okay,” you say easily, smiling. That relief fills him once again, and he can only stare at you, as if explanations for that feeling in his chest will surface if he looks hard enough. They don’t.

“Here are the grapes,” you assert, raising them in front of you. He hesitates, staring at them in accusation after he finally grasps the handle of the basket. Then you say: “Okay, bye now!” and run off the veranda, your bare feet landing in the dirt and carrying you along the trail and across the bridge.

Kita watches you with a pained face, and he realizes his free hand lifted slightly, as if reaching for you. He scowls and forces it down. Then he turns to granny. She’s smiling at him, he can sense it’s with amusement. He wants to ask why you left, if you really are going home, wherever that is. But he can’t, not when granny is giving him such a look.

“Stop cleanin’ up after others,” he tells her instead. Granny blinks, wondering why she’s being scolded now, too. “I’ll do it. Jus’…jus’ rest.”

She smiles warmly. “You’re a good kid, Shin-chan.”

Kita doesn’t think so. Not right now, with the way you ran away.

“Some people need time to learn the ways we live,” she continues vaguely. “Not everyone comes from the same place.”

He wonders why someone from the city would run around without shoes, through mud.

That inexplicable relief returns when you stand in the outdoor veranda the next day. He still doesn’t understand why he would want to see you, maybe for the confirmation that his words did not actually send you away—that granny and Fujiwara-san can continue to enjoy your presence. Regardless, he stares pointedly at your feet, the dirt clinging to them.

“Sorry,” you say, with the tact to at least look sheepish this time. “I washed them at Jii-chan’s, but they got dirty again.”

Kita is too stunned to react. Do people from the city not understand how shoes work? Or water? Dirt? He sighs, attempting to find his patience, as he tells you to stay put while he leaves. He grabs two pairs of sandals from the genkan and re-enters the veranda. He slips on one pair, then ushers you to follow him down the steps to the spigot.

“Rinse your feet,” he instructs. You do, poorly, but he supposes he can only ask for so much. He puts the second pair of sandals on the ground and tells you to step your feet in after you rinse. It’s an arduous process, but finally you are mostly clean and in the sandals. He then walks you to the entrance of the genkan and tells you, “Enter here. Wear those shoes when ya visit and put ‘em—” he points to a cubby, “there when ya come in.”

You are smiling, always smiling, when you reply. “Thanks Shin-chan!” Then you kick off your sandals and toss them into the cubby. Kita's chest flares again with displeasure at your haphazard treatment of his things. Suddenly you grab his hand and pull him inside, and all he can think is that your skin is cold. He can’t find it in himself to comment, heart racing as he stumbles and tries to slip off his slides before you tug him to the main room. He watches as your undried feet leave dark prints in the tatami in front of him—he thinks of the mold that has probably started growing under them since your first visit.

He passes granny as you pull him through the rooms. He gives her a wide-eyed look, one that tries to ask for help. She only smiles.

Kita feels a little bad for his outburst, once a few days pass and he understands that you aren’t intentionally helpless. You enter through the genkan, with relatively clean feet. You’re careful when you eat after he points out that you tend to make a mess. You help clean, when he asks you to. You still leave crumbs around and wet patches, you scrub too hard sometimes and other times not enough, but you try. And Kita finds that he doesn’t mind so much anymore.

You just don’t know things.

The more he ruminates on your…unfamiliarity with the world, the less sense your story makes—the city story that Fujiwara-san told him and granny. It’s obviously not true, but it also has to be, if everyone believes it. Someone from the city wouldn’t look so surprised that their feet collect dirt. He recalls that evening a few years ago when he was only two, when he could see you in the river. He thinks about the never-ending feeling of being watched. You’re from here, from him.

It becomes apparent why you’re here, why you hang around him at home and linger in his presence. One night he wakes up hours before sunrise. He struggles to re-enter his slumber and curiously opens the screen facing the river, to gauge the time. The mountains loom behind the image of a small figure on Fujiwara’s veranda. You, offering a little wave.

He doesn’t react, just watches as you swing your feet. The moon sits high between you, illuminating the river below, the mist that lingers on its surface. He wonders if you’ve always been there, why he never saw you until a couple weeks ago.

The spirits are all around us, in every living thing. Granny’s voice calls from his memory.

As he watches you, the river, he wonders what defines a “living thing”— if it’s breath or blood or growth. Something else entirely. He thinks the river breathes; it absorbs the air when it bubbles over rocks. Its blood is the water itself. It grows in its own way, banks expanding and collapsing, body winding and pooling, collecting life, collecting stories and history. He’s curious about your story, why it’s part of his.

He closes the screen and goes back to bed.

Shinsuke is not the kind of person to ask unnecessary questions. Even as a child, he keeps those curiosities within, assuming they’ll be answered eventually. Like granny said, You’ll learn when the time is right.

So he doesn’t ask, instead infers. Analyzes and assumes. You aren’t the same. Throughout the summer, as you spend time together, you are always asking. Asking and smiling. Sometimes they’re necessary questions: how to properly wash a dish, or where to set a gift of vegetables. Most of the time they’re unnecessary, asking how Kita is feeling, what he thinks of the weather. Sometimes they’re downright invasive.

“Where are your parents?” you ask him one hot July day, laying in the main room. Kita is fanning himself and wondering why you aren’t sweating.

“Osaka,” he says curtly. He hasn’t seen them in a while, hasn’t thought about them either.

“Do you miss them?” You ask, nosiness unsatisfied.

He shakes his head, no unnecessary response. He likes it with granny, always misses her the few times he’s gone to the city.

You hum, like you heard his unspoken answer. He thinks that’ll be the end of it. It isn’t.

“Your hair must be a mix of theirs,” you say plainly. “Whose is grey?”

He shakes his head, “Neither.” They both have black hair, the same with his sister who’s never home and his baby brother in the city with a nanny.

You’re surprised. “Oh. Do you know whose it is?”

He shrugs, uncaring.

But you smile for some reason, with genuinely joyful eyes. “Maybe it’s your gran’s,” you say happily. It makes him blink in surprise, mystified. He inhales, chest lighter. “It’s cool how that sort of stuff happens.”

He can’t look away from you, your smile that pierces right through him.

That night after his bath, he looks at himself in the mirror, intense, searching in a way he’s never done before. He sees the traces of his mom in his eyes and his lips, his dad in his nose. Both of them at the tips of his hair, that lower section by his neck. He continues to stare, looking for granny. He sees the way she influenced the nose he got from dad. He sees the way she claimed his hair, cradling his head and framing his eyes and cheeks. He wonders what it means, to be chosen by the traits from a generation before.

When granny says goodnight, Kita puts his arms up for a hug. She’s warm, always is. His head nestles into her neck, his threads of grey and black hair tangling with her sea of silver. He doesn’t know what it means; he is a five year old without the vocabulary to articulate the tightness in his chest, something akin to longing and fear. He is a five year old incapable of grasping what it means to be alive.

Only a couple days later, Kita catches a new perspective of you. 

You are barefoot in the genkan and Kita is ready to scold you, this one he knows is deserved after all he’s taught you. Before he can, you speak.

“Come with me today.”

Your hand is outstretched and inviting, but Kita is apprehensive, not sure what you mean. Before he can ask, granny speaks from behind him. “Go on, Shin-chan.”

He frowns and looks at her. Neither of them know what you’re talking about, where you even want to go. But granny looks calm and assured, without a worry in the world.

You don’t wait for an answer, grasping his hand when he’s still turned away and giving it a tug. He feels that same chilliness on your skin, one that makes him think you might be sick. He manages to protest long enough to step into his slides before you pull him out the door. 

It’s a beautiful day. The sun still hangs to the side, the heat of July not yet settled in the valley. The sky is a bright blue, populated with innocent fluffy clouds, white and rolling in the breeze. A group of sparrows sing in a shrub you two pass, and a toad leaps off the path to get out of your way. Kita inhales deeply, the air humid but clean.

“Where’r we goin’?” he manages to ask, quickening his pace to match yours. Your hand has loosened its grip, but he doesn’t let go.

“The forest!” you cheer easily.

His eyes widen. The forest? He’s been to the forest before, to pick bamboo shoots and tea leaves with granny, but he’s not supposed to go without an adult. Does granny know? Why would she let them go by themselves? These are necessary questions, he thinks, and yet he swallows them down and lets you take him without protest.

You are fast despite being barefoot, rocks and sticks seemingly unnoticed as you dart along the path. Kita follows along diligently, stumbling only a few times. He wishes he wore his athletic shoes instead of the sandals. He glances back to the house, studies the way it shrinks from the distance. The two of you are still on the southern side of the river, not yet crossed to the northern mountains, where granny takes him.

Kita decides that he likes running like this, despite the heat and his shoes. It’s a gentle jog, with a destination in mind, his hand in yours as you lead the way.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, just follows you up and along the path until the two of you reach its end. It’s the first time Kita has seen it, the way it stops before a rock face that climbs up a mountain west from his house. He looks down the path, into the valley from the incline.

He looks back at you, waiting for an explanation for what to do next. You don’t offer one, walking to the bank of the river. To get in the river, he realizes, and for the first time since leaving granny’s he tries to pull away.

You turn back to him, smiling softly. “Trust me, Shin-chan,” you say.

He’s not sure why he should, why he did, to let you take him all the way out here in the first place. Because of granny’s encouragement, he thinks. Go on, she said. Did that mean all the way? To the ends of wherever you wanted him?

You have turned and continued down the bank. Kita does not try to escape your grasp, letting you pull him along.

The water of the river rushes over his feet, cool and surprising. It runs up his ankles, his shins, his knees, and finally his thighs. You are leading him forwards, upstream and past the rock face that marks the end of the trail. His toes bump rocks covered in algae, slipping and wavering as he wades slowly. You, however, are sturdy, never faltering with your sure steps.

You approach a pile of rocks, scrambling over them to bring yourself back onto land. You help hoist Kita after you. He pauses when he steps onto the forest floor, the softness catching him off guard. He looks down to see reddish-brown piles of pine needles coating the ground, dotted with lush bundles of ferns and patches of vibrant moss. The land rolls gently, small and soft hills of fallen pine covering rocks and dirt and life. A mist lingers from the proximity of the water, the sun pulling the moisture into the air. The scenery is dark, quiet from the hazy canopy above. Kita inhales deeply in attempt to regulate his exhausted panting, the essence of wood and mint taking over him. He is in awe, not used to being swaddled in pine. The forests here are mostly a mix of leafy trees, oaks and maples and chestnuts, with pockets of bamboo. Not secret havens of sweetness and tang.

You tug him along, bouncing through the fluff of the soft ground. He follows, eyes wide and soaking in the scenery, wanting to memorize every moment. You show him your enchanted forest, its mysterious darkness splattered with occasional sun that manages to seep through. He spots a white hare leaping away, watches birds flutter from the trees. At one point you guide him to cross the river on a fallen tree, green with moss and bundles of young sedge. Behind your skipping form he walks carefully, arms outstretched for balance.

His heart freezes when he steps down onto the other side, catching sight of a grey wolf waiting its turn. He clutches your hand as the creature steps forwards, two smaller ones following. They look at him blankly before leaping onto the natural bridge, continuing their own journey without looking back.

When he turns to you, you are smiling, and tug him forwards once more. The sun starts to stream in, brightening as pines transition to those oak and maple and chestnut trees. The ground is no longer soft, but firm dirt and clumps of rocks, leading to one larger slab of jagged earth that juts out from the mountain entirely.

You step out into the sun and he follows, taking in the view in front of him.

He is not at the peak of the mountain, maybe halfway there, but the outlook forces him to understand the vastness of the valley. He can see the large span of the mountains as they roll and crawl in the distance, his house a small square along others. The river is more apparent, winding intensely down the mountain and softening into a gentle curve next to the village. He can see crop fields and the road that has taken him to Osaka before.

You speak, the first time since bringing him into the water, “Some people climb mountains to look from above. I like when I still feel inside of it, can still see what’s happening.”

Kita thinks he understands, remembers the way the mountains from his house are like a promising wall, a guardian. How the depth of the valley cradles him. He thinks of the hare and the birds, the wolves, the journey here striking wonder and awe into his heart. He recalls that feeling of being watched, your gaze always near.

The sun approaches its peak in the sky, nearly noon. It illuminates the valley, brings light into the forest behind them. Kita watches it light up your face, already bright from your joyful expressions.

“Happy birthday, Shin-chan,” you tell him, taking him by surprise. He forgot, in the excitement of the past hours with you. Granny gave him some books this morning as a gift. You’re giving him the forest. His smile is small and reserved, but it’s the first time he offers one back to you.

He thinks he understands now: what you meant when you said home.

The sight of your back with a hand pulling him along defines the next year. After you show Kita the forest, he trusts you wholly, no doubt that you will look after him. He is happily tugged again and again into that realm of magic. He encounters more animals—badgers and pigs, bears and herons. In the winter he sees foxes and macaques. The river freezes and snow becomes the new carpet of the forest. You don’t shiver either, he learns.

You take him to the summit once, so he can see the view. The pine transitions to a highland, bald of trees and instead coated in grass and shrubs. It’s beautiful, a clear day when the entirety of the valley is visible and he can spot granny’s home, how it sits across from Fujiwara-san’s. When he looks up, there is only the blue of the sky, not a single speck of cloud coverage. They stay until dark and watch the Milky Way span across the blackness of night, its subtle hues of pinks and blues, the way meteors shower down in flashes.

He watches life rise from the ground when the weather warms once again, as seedlings sprout and newborn animals wander through the land. Flowers bloom, coating pockets of earth in the full spectrum of light. He is witness to deer learning to walk, stumbling awkwardly over roots and rocks. He sees the other clumsy ways animals go about the world, how a sparrow drops its worm, how a duck trips and rolls into the river behind its mother. He collects these moments in his memory, happy to observe, solely to understand.

And you observe him, because Kita knows that is what you are meant to do. He still doesn’t know who you are, or why him, but he feels your eyes constantly. He doesn’t admit it, but they are comforting.

On the days you two are not parading in the mountain, you are still usually in each other’s presence. Kita no longer reads while you look over his shoulder or sit on the other side of the room. He reads to you, the books granny rents him from the library. You like to lay on the veranda while he sits and swings his feet, paying close attention to pronouncing the words. He still cleans up after you, since you never fully get the hang of doing things yourself. It’s only crumbs and small puddles, untidy blankets or cushions, an untucked chair at the table after dinner. He finds himself volunteering to take granny’s extra harvest of leeks to Fujiwara-san’s, under the pretense that he wants her to rest.

He walks there briskly, and stays for an additional hour. You have a lot to say, your nosiness still strong even after nearly a year.

“Jii-chan told me you’re starting school soon,” you say, eating one of the leeks. He watches you chew the entirety of it, uncooked. Some water squeezes out and dribbles onto the floor.

“In April,” he replies. April is two weeks away. It’s when he’ll go to Osaka. He’s supposed to stay there for the week leading up to school to prepare. He gets the sense that you’re leaving too.

You don’t look sad, and his shoulders feel tense when he notices. He’s not sure why.

Kita doesn’t ever ask unnecessary questions, but right now he is compelled to ask you many things. Sometimes it seems like you understand what he’s thinking, but you never respond unless he says it outright. As a result, he never gets to know.

He surprises both himself and you when he asks, “Are ya goin’ to school, too?” He already knows you aren’t.

You shake your head. He wants to ask why, wants to ask if you’re going somewhere else. He wants to know if you’ll be here when he comes back during break. He wants to figure out why you came in the first place.

Another question: “Are ya goin’ home?”

You nod your head this time. He watches you, thinking you’ll return to the pine forest. You shake your head when he thinks it, and give him the reprieve of elaborating. “The river.”

He frowns, confused. The river? You were always in the forest, guiding him along its greenery. He thinks about how he has to wade upstream to enter the forest in the west. He recalls the memory from years ago, a child in the water watching him. 

“I came from the forest,” you try to explain, “but the water’s my home now.”

Kita is reminded that he was born in Osaka, but would always rather be at granny’s house in the northern mountains.

It’s hard for him to leave granny’s, more than any time before. When the driver comes to get him and he squeezes in the back with granny, he looks out the window towards Fujiwara’s house. You sit on the veranda, waving while your legs swing. This time the sun is high in the sky and the river releases a blinding reflection. When the car drives away and he can no longer see you, his chest hurts.

Osaka does not make it easier. His mother coos at how big he’s grown while his father watches disinterested. Kita is shown his baby brother, now a toddler awkwardly walking around and speaking. Kita doesn’t know how to talk to him, but he tries. He says hello to his sister—who he hasn’t seen since she decided to stay in the city—when she finally makes an appearance at dinner. Granny stays for the meal and the night, and then leaves in the morning.

That night, the second one in Osaka, he cries while laying in bed. He isn’t sure why, the feelings simply overwhelming and in need of release. The squishy mattress in a raised bed frame doesn’t comfort him. He thinks about you, about granny. The mountains and the forest. The river. When he looks outside his window—a square of glass punched through plaster walls—he only sees pavement and blocks of concrete. Other homes, maybe with other children crying for reasons they can’t explain. There is no mountain in the distance or river running along the ground. The sky is hazy, no stars in sight. The only twinkling comes from his own eyes, his teary squinting blurring streetlights and windows with every blink. Each time his eyes close, for a moment he thinks he can see you.

If Shinsuke is one thing, he is malleable. He can fit himself into environments, his adherence to routine giving him a means of finding comfort no matter where he is placed. Responsibility grounds him, distracts him. He can redirect his energy to doing well in school, looking after his brother. These things feel good to him, to simply do them well.

Even though you are not with him, he can feel your eyes at all times. He is reminded of being at granny’s, her washing the floor as she tells him that the spirits are everywhere, always watching. He finds himself cleaning up after his brother, thinking of you. He wonders what you think, if you’re reminded of the same.

School is as alien as Osaka, with its concrete exterior and plastered walls. They are painted white and lined with large sheets of glass. They slide open, but only for students to shout at their friends outside, not to let the morning air in. 

In class, he sits quietly at his desk and listens to the teacher. He doesn't talk with other students or pass notes under the desk. He doesn’t even wonder about you, the feeling of your eyes always on him. He watches the teacher closely, diligently records the lessons. He watches other students, gathering first impressions and additional observations. He notices the way some of them doze off or scribble in their books. He sees the meaningful glances some make to each other, usually girls as they eye each other and specific boys in the class.

When he studies for his first exam, he thinks that he can feel you in the room with him. First looking over his shoulder—a cool breeze wafting from behind him, and then laying on his bed—the sheets oddly chilly when he goes to sleep. He remembers how you sat by him while he read aloud just a few weeks ago. He murmurs to himself as he reviews information, wondering if you can hear him.

Kita scores at the top of his class. He doesn’t feel anything when teachers congratulate him and other students whine. There is no pride in his chest or sense of satisfaction at the results. He thinks back to his nights studying, your presence lingering over him. It just feels good, he thinks, to do things well. The process of trying and dedicating himself to something.

He makes a routine out of it, delegating time after school to review material. It falls easily into his schedule, after dinner and before he readies for bed. He still has time to play with his brother, usually reading or offering him toys. His sister is always gone, either busy with club activities or friends. His parents get home late too, but they usually manage to have a full family dinner.

They’re eating quietly, having debriefed their days as they reach the end of their meal. Kita glances at his family, realizing that they’re different from the people at school. He’s known them for his whole life, people without first impressions and instead ingrained understandings. He looks at them intently, notices the way they eat, listens to the way they speak. He knows them intuitively, no running list in his mind to keep track of information. He is reminded of the time you asked about his hair, and he stares at his mom, then his dad. His mom’s hair is long and brown, artificially lightened from its original dark color. His dad’s is black with a sprinkling of silver from age. Kita wonders if his will do the opposite when he grows old.

There’s another exam the following week, this one for his science class. Kita is the first one in the classroom, watching students filter in. The boy who sits next to him—Daiki, tall and skinny—plops down with a sigh just a few minutes before the teacher is supposed to arrive.

“Gahh, I’m so nervous,” he says to Kita, laying his head on the desk. When Kita doesn’t respond, he asks, “Are you?”

Kita shakes his head at that, not sure why he would be. He studied. 

When the results come back after a few days Daiki whines that Kita is a goody-goody, trying his hardest to get the teacher’s attention. Kita looks at his full marks and once again feels nothing. He thinks it is the natural result of his efforts. He wonders what you would say, if he could talk to you. He thinks you would ask nosey questions about his siblings. It makes his chest feel hollow.

Some kids try to be his friend, or at least try to talk to him. But he’s quiet, not very eloquent or forgiving with his words, and so they eventually leave him alone. He thinks about how you diligently stood by him, how you smiled when he scolded you.

When he gets home and returns to his room, it is exactly as he left it. There are no crumbs to sweep or puddles to wipe. His brother is out with the nanny, but he feels restless, the need to do something. He thinks he can get started on his homework early, pulling out his notebooks and folders. He can’t focus on the words, eyes skimming the pages without understanding. He knows that studying now is futile, and decides to continue later. He settles on bathing early instead.

His bath draws on, longer than usual. He finds himself pausing, getting lost in thought—though more lost in feeling, since his mind drifts blankly. He’s still restless by the time he finishes, but slightly relaxed. He stands to wrap himself with the towel and steps carefully onto the bath rug. Once he’s dried and his towel is secure around his waist, he leans over to pull the plug and let the water drain. Just as he grasps it, there’s a lurch of water that spills out and onto the floor. His eyes widen in disbelief and his chest flares with annoyance knowing he will have to clean the mess. He looks at the floor incredulously before turning back to the bath and—

His eyes widen further, mouth opening slightly at the sight of you—a misty figure over the water. You’re wearing a sheepish expression as you lean over the edge to assess the mess.

“Sorry,” you say quietly. Kita's disbelief increases at the sound of your voice. “I’m still getting the hang of it.”

Kita slams the plug back down and stands to face you clearly. He feels the water pooled at his feet, but all irritation has fled his body. Instead he is filled with a warmth, a contrast to the coolness wafting from you.

“You made a mess,” he tells you, unnecessarily. You know that already.

“Yeah,” you say. You apologize again.

“Don’ do it again,” he tries to scold. His body wants to step forward, to reach you. He’s not sure why, and he frowns with skepticism.

You nod, then lift your leg experimentally. When it’s pulled above the water, there are no droplets falling. Instead, you appear airy, like the water sits around your body. You step out and onto the bathroom floor, successfully avoiding increasing the mess. You smile brightly at your success. Kita continues to watch, wondering if you’ll disappear, evaporate at any moment. You look at the water on the floor and then meet his eyes, smile turning sheepish again.

“I should mop,” you tell him, breaking him from his quiet spell.

“I’ll do it,” he says immediately. “Jus’...jus’ don’ go anywhere.”

You nod.

Mopping helps him calm down, perhaps needing a task to manage his agitation. You watch, and then follow him to his room once he’s finished. He dresses while you distractedly rummage through his things, then walks over to you at his desk. He feels a wetness under his foot and looks down, seeing footprints scattered along the floor. They’re light and clearly yours, and he ignores them, continuing over to you.

“You can go back to studying,” you tell him.

He can’t bring himself to look away. He’s not sure why, chest tight with anticipation.

There’s a knock at the door, mom’s sign that dinner is ready. The noise startles you and there is a poof, the sound of you evaporating into mist, wafting up to the ceiling. Gone. The only traces of you are those faint, damp footprints and few misplaced items on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, Kita feels a sinking disappointment.

Adolescence

Contrary to what he expected, Kita doesn’t leave Osaka during break. His parents think it would be good for him to have a consistent lifestyle. Kita doesn’t protest, but he can feel a heaviness in his stomach. He asks about granny, if he’ll see her soon. They tell him she will visit some time, and she does, though rarely. He thinks about the forest and the mountains, when he’ll see them again.

On the first day of fourth grade, Kita wakes up on time. He uses the toilet, washes his face, brushes his teeth, and changes his clothes at his usual pace. As he splashes cool water along his forehead and cheeks, he is reminded of your touch and wonders if he will see you this morning. He often finds himself waiting, without realizing until a significant amount of time has already passed. You are irregular and unpredictable. It puts him on edge, that you might disrupt his perfectly crafted routine.

He is the first to sit down for breakfast and the first one to finish, everyone else but his mother just having started. He stands to put his dishes away and gather his school things when she rushes into the room. She’s fumbling with her shoe, trying to get it in place while collecting her things to fill her purse. Her face brightens when she sees him and asks about his first day, if he’s excited or nervous.

Kita shakes his head, neither. He’s been going to school nearly everyday for years now, what reason would he have to be nervous? What’s to be excited for?

He turns to leave, but she calls for him. She asks if he’s planning to join a club.

He shakes his head again, not sure why he should.

But his mother protests, “I think it’d be good for you to do a sport. You don’t exercise much, with all the studying.”

His father hums in agreement from the table and his sister stands to excuse herself. His brother knocks his bowl over, spoon clattering to the ground. Without hesitation, Kita walks over to return it.

“Just try one, okay?” his mom asks. Kita nods in response before finally leaving. 

In his room, he gathers his books and school supplies into his backpack, double checking that everything is there. He slips it over his shoulders and then turns to the window. It’s translucent with a sheen of moisture from inside. He wipes it away and glances at the sky. It’ll probably rain, he gauges. As he steps away from the window to leave, he catches a glimpse of you in the reflection.

His first day of school is like any other, spent seated at his desk near the center of the room, watching the teacher, observing his classmates. He diligently helps clean at the end of the day: sweeping duty, not missing a single spot. Once finished, he changes his shoes and makes for the exit. Some students say goodbye, and he nods in return. He can hear the soft pattering of rain as he approaches the door, and pops open his umbrella before stepping outside.

The walk home is quiet, with occasional groups of students chattering by. Kita walks at his typical pace, unrushed. He hears his shoes tap against the pavement with each step, the plopping of raindrops above his head. The occasional car rushes by, veering aside to avoid splashing him. He runs through a mental list of what he needs to do for school, but it’s short given it being the first day.

When he’s only a few minutes from home, he hears splashing behind him, as if someone is running through a puddle. You, calling his name.

He doesn’t turn to look, but his steps slow while his heart speeds, giving you time to catch up. Within a few seconds you are by his side, your now-usual misty and translucent figure at his side. You smile when he glances at you, but he appears unfazed. You’re unbothered as you walk with him, light on your feet.

When he reaches the door of his home and unlocks it, you let yourself in first. He closes his umbrella and gives it a shake before setting it on the rack. While he removes his shoes in the genkan, he eyes the light trail of footprints you left on your way to his room. He leaves them, knowing they’ll evaporate before anyone else comes home. He stops by the kitchen, dumping a bag of carrots onto a small plate, and then he briskly enters his room and closes the door behind him.

He sees you laying on his bed and he feels an itch of annoyance, knowing the sheets will be damp. But he doesn’t say anything, instead setting the plate on his desk and sliding his bag onto the floor. You smile and ask how his day was.

This has become part of Kita's routine, your irregular visits. He walks through life with an anxious anticipation, waiting for you to come. He is relieved when you appear, but he is never entirely pleased. There’s a warmth in his chest regardless, one that reminds him of granny.

He wonders if maybe that’s why he accepts the interruption so easily, because it momentarily brings him home, his life in the mountains, granny’s voice telling him that someone is watching over him. He knows that someone is you. He wonders if granny knows about your visits, if you ever tell her about him.

His answers are short, per usual. But he talks about his classes, his classmates, how mom wants him to join a club. He knows that you know all this, but he says it anyways, gives into you.

“Do you know what club you’ll join?” you ask.

He shrugs. “A sport, since I should exercise.”

You nod at that, “It’s too bad the forest is so far away. Exploring is good exercise.”

Kita thinks about the forest often, seeping into his spare time when he’s not caught up in classes or the growing responsibilities of life. He’s heard from mom about wildfires in Hyogo, ones that spring at random in the dryness of summertime. Luckily nothing near home, but still within the province. He recounts those memories of rabbits and monkeys, remembers the flowers that are blooming right about now. He's curious if it’s raining, how visible the stars are tonight. These questions bring a pain to his chest, one he can’t explain, one that doesn’t make sense. Sometimes he calls granny and the pain goes away. Sometimes it gets worse.

When you’re in his room with him like this, he thinks it’s a different pain entirely.

Eventually your questions lull and Kita knows that this is his queue to start his schoolwork. He doesn’t have much to do, though. Instead he wants to ask a question of his own. You can tell, and you wait.

He doesn’t know how to phrase it, so he never asks. As a result, you never answer.

A week later the school allows them to pick clubs. Kita looks at the other hopeful kids as they play rock-paper-scissors for a spot for the popular sports: basketball, football, baseball. He eyes the groups that are smaller, have less interest. The running club looks crowded, so he makes his way over. He still has to do a round of rock-paper-scissors, and he’s one of the three who have to find another option. To his right is another small group, and he asks to join without knowing what they are. Volleyball, apparently. He’s not sure if he’ll be any good, but he figures it’s only for the year and he can try something different in fifth grade.

Volleyball, it turns out, is difficult. He learns how to receive a ball, but it flies in the opposite direction of where he wants it to go. He watches the other players, trying to understand how to improve himself.

Volleyball, it turns out, is technical and requires a lot of practice to sharpen his skills. He diligently attends practice, two days a week for fourth-graders. The coaches appreciate his efforts, how he runs his full laps and takes every suggestion seriously. Kita finds that he just enjoys the process of training, improving his abilities and caring for his body. His legs feel tired at the end of the day and it reminds him of running through the forest. It reminds him of his efforts, makes him feel good.

Volleyball, it turns out, is the perfect distraction. From you.

It becomes part of his routine, filling in the gaps of time that he normally finds himself waffling in, waiting for you. He learns to walk through everyday as if it’s the same, just himself, but allows it to shuffle when you make an appearance. 

Volleyball helps as he enters middle school and your visits lose frequency. Your lack of presence, however, makes the feeling of your gaze on him even stronger. He feels it every time he’s on the court—though he only ever plays games in practice. He in turn watches his teammates, their ticks and habits. He watches his opponents, offers notes to his team about patterns and flaws in their styles. He’s not a powerhouse like the standout players, doesn’t have any exceptional talent, and so despite his hard work and consistent practice, he doesn’t play a single game, doesn’t even receive a jersey.

You ask him about it one evening, on break before high school starts.

“Are you going to join the volleyball club?” you ask, to which he nods. It makes you hum as you sit on his bed. He can see the wall behind you, how it darkens slightly from the moisture of your form leaning against it. 

“I hope you get the chance to play more,” you tell him honestly. “I don’t know why they don’t let you.”

But it means nothing to him, that sort of attention and recognition. He just plays to play the game, do the drills, learn the mechanics—to take care of himself. You know this, but you like watching him, the way he watches the game, moves with it, into it.

He doesn’t say anything in response, knowing that you know what he thinks.

Instead of pushing further, you change the subject. “I’m not going to be able to visit very often,” you tell him. You sound regretful, and his chest is agitated. He thinks of the fires, happening at random across the country.

“I know,” he tells you. He could sense it, recognized the increasing infrequency of your presence. He wants to ask why, but he can’t get the words out, for whatever reason.

You look at him closely and say, “I’ll be around though.”

He nods at that. He knows.

Inarizaki is a prestigious school, known for academics and athletics alike. Kita makes it in easily with his grades, and joins the volleyball club despite knowing he will likely never play in a match. The coaches note that Kita is inexperienced in competition, but they know an asset when they see one. His skills are too sturdy, too well-practiced for Inarizaki to not take advantage of him.

During his first year, he hardly plays. Even so, he is the first at practice, one of the last ones to leave, and the most diligent athlete on the team. He runs the entire length of the track, finishes every rep during weight training, and completes every drill and penalty without complaint. The coaches find that he does not have star power—he is unassuming and ordinary—but he is exceptional in his efforts, and his efforts meet returns when it counts, when they need him on the court as his usual Kita-san.

Some of the older players tease him for his diligence, others admire him because of it. Everyone realizes that he pays no mind to what they think, only ever doing what he wants, what fits his values. He respects his elders even when he disagrees with them, but he is blunt with his fellow first years, unafraid to call out their behavior, especially if it contradicts something they’ve said before. Some say it’s rich coming from him, someone who only warms the bench.

Aran is the one who talks to him, one day in the locker room. A tense conversation between Michinari and Shinsuke unraveled earlier when Kita commented on how the libero attempted too many unpracticed receives in-game, that he should have stuck to underhand until he perfected his overhand off the court. Michi has a temper, and his frustration was pushed by the spiker’s comment. He shouted that Kita wouldn’t understand, that he hasn’t been put in a game, hasn’t had the opportunity to feel the pressures of expectation.

Aran lingered when the others filed out of the locker room—partially to make sure Kita was okay, and partially to suggest he cool it with the critique.

“Don’t take it to heart,” he offers. “Akagi-san gets bad nerves. He knows what he needs to do.”

“I don’t understand the point of being nervous,” Kita responds.

A machine, Aran thinks. This guy is a machine. He says as much, and thinks there’s truth to Michi’s comments, that Kita must not understand because he’s never played in a match that counted.

But Kita explains—that it doesn’t make sense if you’ve practiced the skills and know your capabilities. That it’s the same with eating, shitting even. He thinks Michi’s underhand receives are enough, that they have saved the ball from Inarizaki’s own powerhouses in practice. Why would he need to try anything else?

Aran’s eyes widen as Kita speaks, starting to understand his perspective. It becomes apparent that his criticism towards Michi was more of a poorly delivered compliment: that their first-year libero is enough as he is, that he could save them with the tools he knows—he doesn’t need miracles. This glimpse into Kita puts Aran’s teammate in a new light, recontextualizes his diligent attitude towards their training and the criticism he gives his peers. He trusts the process, knows that the results will follow suit.

Aran begins to notice how Kita fades to the back, his presence unassuming on its own. Kita does not play for recognition or adulation, he simply does what needs to be done. His diligence to get every ball in the air goes unnoticed when the flashy ace pulls an impressive cross against three blockers—a move that would not have been possible without Kita, committed behind him. But Kita doesn’t care, doesn’t ask for attention. 

Aran already held immense respect for his teammate, for his repetition, diligence, and perseverance. But now he feels a special type of awe when he watches him more closely.

Kita does not make a fuss of convincing others of his praiseworthy traits, but Aran takes it upon himself to point them out to his team, to give new context to Kita's seemingly harsh words. Slowly but surely, they will understand, too.

What Aran doesn’t know is that Kita feels like he has already been noticed and recognized, always has been and always will be, at every moment—by you.

(Your eyes continue to bore into him no matter where he is. They feel stronger the longer he goes without seeing you. Your visits are few and far between, but he has his routine, knows to follow it independently and let it shape around your irregularity.)

The following season, a handful of talented first years join, including a freakishly synchronized twin duo and a sly middle blocker. They fight with each other. Some of them cut corners. One particularly troublesome one likes to work himself through illness, inspiring misguided awe in other first years. Kita as a second year has no qualms scolding his teammates, now sometimes including his upperclassmen. The underclassmen pout and grumble while the elders know the intent resting behind his abrasion. 

You only visit him twice during the school year, both times at the hotel for nationals. The first is during the Interhigh National Tournament; he is sitting in the tub at the end of the day, running through his observations of other teams he saw, considering what would be useful to share with the others, to exploit. His head is resting on the ledge of the tub, staring at the blank ceiling as a canvas for him to visualize what he saw: bad crosses, a fragile ego, delayed timing for a back attack. He thinks about the team they’re playing tomorrow, the most imperative information to note. He thinks he should finish bathing so he can write it down.

When he straightens his head to look forward, he jolts in surprise, water splashing out and onto the bathroom floor.

You’re there, sitting on the other end of the bath in your misty form. Your eyes are wide, head turning to look at the puddles on the tile. Kita can’t even consider the mess, body tense at your proximity. He’s never been flustered around you before, never felt strange about his nakedness if you appeared after a bath. It’s been a long time since you’ve come from a bath. And this—this is a closeness and intimacy he has never imagined. You, sharing the water, right beside him. He is frozen when your eyes move back to his face.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper, and he recalls another variable to add to the situation: Aran, likely still in their shared room.

Kita shakes his head, not knowing what to say. “You—” he stutters, unlike him. “What’re ya doin’.” Ever since middle school you only appeared in the rain. He didn’t know bathtubs were even still a…vessel of transportation.

You smile. “Good luck tomorrow.”

Kita blinks, torn between the urge to scold you, the urge to reach for you, and the urge to make you leave before Aran learns of your presence. He finds it exhausting, the way you pit these conflicting pieces of him against each other.

Instead he tells you, “I probably won’ play.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re doing it right now.” The analysis of his opponents, you mean.

A sound at the door makes you jolt, the water softly rippling around you. It’s Aran, asking if things are okay. He doesn’t comment further, but he swears he hears the murmuring of voices.

Kita calls back that he’s fine, just about to get out and be done for the night. He gives you a look afterwards, a sign that you can’t stay. He wishes you could.

You surprise him by leaning forwards, reaching for him. He is suddenly swept into your chilly embrace, arms wrapping around his shoulders. His body is tense, on edge from the intimacy, but he only feels your body above the water, arms and chest and head as it settles into his neck. Despite your cold temperature, Kita's body heats at the contact.

“I’ll see you,” you say, and then you are mist, dispersing into the air.

When Kita exits the bathroom, Aran thinks for the first time that he looks amused—a mirth settled in his eyes and his lips slightly quirked.

A few months later during the Spring High Nationals, you appear in his room, again shared with Aran. Luckily the spiker is out for the moment, allowing Kita the freedom to speak with you. He’s getting dressed from the bath while you flop onto his bed. When he finishes he stands over you, inquiring why you came.

“To wish you luck again.”

Where you’re laying on the bed, his hand hangs by his hip only inches from your face. He is called to reach for it, hold it gently. He’s not sure why but this visit makes him uneasy, like it could be the last. He wonders if these are nerves.

The sound of the key opening the door interrupts his thinking. You have already faded into the air by the time Aran enters, followed by the twins barreling their way past him.

Atsumu (the obnoxious) immediately makes for Kita's bed. He flops down onto it, not unlike how you did minutes before, but immediately tenses and shrieks. He rolls himself off, pushing Kita back from where he was standing, all while shouting, “Kitaaa! Why’s it wet—”

Kita thinks he should thank you, next time you visit.

You don’t visit again.

Rather, Kita goes home to you. He decides to leave for break instead of sticking around for club practice, a choice he’s never made since he started volleyball. Something in him calls to visit granny. So at the end of March he boards the train headed towards the north station, and then hails a ride to the village. Granny is home when he arrives, and she marvels at how tall he is, not having seen him since she visited in middle school.

He towers over her small figure, awkwardly hunching in a hug. Granny says that he’ll be a big help with his height, and over the next day she sets him to dust the high shelves and put away dishes. She comments that he can move the table in the main room all on his own, no longer small, five year old Shin-chan.

The ease Kita feels in himself when he is here, with granny in the mountains, is undeniably because this is his home. He is malleable, shapeable to the life he’s lived in Osaka, but this is where he should be. He knows that when he enters this final year of high school, he will be given a sheet that asks for his three career plans. With his grades and diligent work ethic, he knows that he can put himself on any path and make it work. But in this moment, in granny’s embrace, the warmth of a home lined with screens and tatami, Kita knows that he wants to be here, no matter what.

That night he lays out his futon, smoothing out the creases and carefully lining it to be perpendicular with the wall. He smiles, this routine of preparing his bed one of many things he missed in the city. Before he lays down, he is overcome by the feeling of being watched. He turns to the screens that lead outside, towards the river. He walks over and opens them, looking into the darkness of the night.

The moon hangs low in the sky—a crescent, a smile. It shines softly on the water, Fujiwara-san’s house behind it, and the form of the mountains beyond. You aren’t there, but the river is misty, a bluish haze settling thickly on its surface.

In the morning he decides to go for a run, an attempt to maintain conditioning while he’s gone from practice. He goes left—west—towards your mountain.

The jog is peaceful, with March air cool and crisp against his skin. He is calmed by the sound of the water rushing next to him, running the opposite way. There are birds singing when he passes and a small hare jets by his feet. Running feels like a trip through his memory, recounting the times he tried to keep up with your pace, the adventures you went on together. He is running through the blue of wanderlust, along the breathing water and between the distant mountains, under the bright sky above him. He is running through the green of nostalgia, the lush vegetation, stalks of bamboo and solid trees, mostly oak and maple and chestnut, but occasionally the mysterious pine.

He is running to you.

It isn’t apparent until he reaches the end of the path, to that rock face at the foot of the mountain, and you are there—in the flesh—waiting in the river. The water is cold during spring, and yet you smile warmly, unfazed by the temperature. When he takes your hand to let you guide him through the water, through soft pine and hazy light, your touch is cool and refreshing against his—hot from exertion.His heart lurches at the contact, an inexplicable mix of tightness and lightness blooming in his chest. He can’t tell if it’s hollowing him out or overfilling him. It feels like hello and farewell all at once. There is a knot in his stomach, one that feels like nerves. It is exhilarating, magnetizing, like falling into you completely. He lets himself. He has no other option.

You come back with him to granny’s and have breakfast together. She doesn’t say anything, only calls you “dear” and thanks you for your help cleaning up. She does not mention Fujiwara and neither do you. Kita feels whole, sitting on the floor at this table.

At night you sit and watch as he prepares his futon. He looks at you and asks, “D’ya need one?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Don’t sleep.”

He nods before getting up to turn off the light. He opens the soft blanket and lays down. He turns to you, hesitating. He wants to know if you’re staying, if you’ll be here all night. Part of him wants to invite you to lay next to him.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you curiously.

You are smiling over him, as always. One of your hands reaches to smooth back his hair and he softens. Even with your skin always cold, his body will forever warm at your touch.

These days continue and Kita feels light, enjoying time with you, as a person. His questions fade after he succumbs to focusing on soaking in your presence. It feels good, not unlike the satisfaction of completing his daily rituals.

He looks at you closely, the way you’ve grown with him. You are still smiling, still diligent in ways that he initially failed to see as a five year old. Watchful, joyful. He doesn’t feel the smile on his face, a small one that granny notices. You are smiling too, as you take dishes he’s finished washing and run a rag across their surface. You miss some spots, little droplets sticking to the ceramic. Some fly off and land on the floor and counter.

Kita is entirely at ease. It is quaint, quiet, content.

After a few moments, you suddenly pause your drying and turn thoughtfully, towards the river. Kita watches as the faintest furrow appears between your brows, your face both pensive and concerned. You drop the rag on the counter and step away. He stares curiously, still scrubbing a plate.

“I’ll be back in a second,” you say. Nothing else, no unnecessary information. 

Fear germinates in his chest, his heartbeat picking up speed. Granny smiles at him, reassured. He wonders how she retains her calm demeanor.

When nearly ten minutes pass and you don't return, Kita tells granny he’s going to check on you. She nods in understanding as he slips on his sandals and exits through the genkan. He spots you immediately, standing between the house and the river. You’re facing the northern mountains with a frown on your face. Kita realizes this is the first time he’s seen you anything but joyful.

You answer his silent question when he stands beside you, “There’s something wrong.”

“In the forest?” he clarifies. You nod, looking onwards. He watches you for a silent minute, the way you study the sky over the ridge. 

“I think…” you start. Pause. “You should leave, with your gran. And everyone else.”

Kita's brow furrows as he looks at you skeptically. You turn to him, eyes unwavering. You never look this serious. Always nosy, unnecessary questions. Lighthearted. Messes on the floor.

“Shinsuke,” you say firmly. He startles at the sound of his full name. “Tell everyone there’s a fire—in the northern mountains. I’ll try to keep it at bay, but it’s spreading. By the time they see it, it’ll be too late. If you can evacuate the houses on the other side of the river before it’s visible, things should be okay.”

He feels a strike in his lungs, like he’s gasping for breath. He wants to ask for details, but you’ve made it clear there’s no time. You are grabbing him, your cool hand holding his wrist, as you start towards the bridge in a run. He is momentarily brought back to his sixth birthday, running behind you as you guide him along the path to the base of a mountain—your mountain. He remembers thinking that running behind you was fun.

This time you are serious, almost panicked, bringing him across the river and pointing at the houses, which ones he should evacuate first. The ones with the oldest people. Fujiwara-san is one of them. You let go of his hand and run, sprint towards the base of the mountain. He feels panicked, wondering how long it’ll take for you to come back. What it means for you to keep the fire at bay. You fade away, the blue of distance settling between you two, mistiness.

The next moments are a blur. He knocks on doors and is greeted by elders he hasn’t seen in years, ready to exclaim at how he’s grown. Their coos are interrupted by his apologies, an explanation that he got news of a wildfire and wants to make sure people have time to evacuate. He suggests that they get into their cars and head east near the highway, and to wait for official advice for next steps. He says the words, but they don’t fully register when his mind is still occupied with the memory of you sprinting to the danger. The families look at him skeptically, but they get a move on when they remember this is Shin-chan, the quiet and good-natured village boy.

He makes his way down the homes to relay the news. He asks neighbors to tell the others, and to call emergency services. There are 26 homes on this side of the river, and by the time he knocks on half the doors, smoke hangs over the mountains. No fire is in sight, but the signs are there. It makes the next conversations much quicker, and he is relieved as he watches cars pile out towards the highway.

Suddenly an alarm starts blaring. The emergency intercoms spaced along the neighborhood release a sharp and repeating warning sound. A deep voice calls out between the noise, commanding evacuation. Kita's breath is labored from the exertion of running between houses, but his chest feels lighter knowing that his responsibility has been lifted.

By the time he crosses the bridge back to granny’s home, the sky has darkened significantly, black smog blowing along and spewing upwards. There’s the slight lick of a flame creeping over the ridge and he feels his heart begin to gallop. His stomach clenches roughly when his mind flashes with images of the western mountain forest, deer and wolves and rabbits and birds. Flowers and pine and ferns. He glances that way and sees that it’s still untouched, for now.

He runs inside granny’s, calling for her to get in a neighbor’s car, since she doesn’t own one herself. She stands slowly, at her elderly pace, and Kita is restless as he helps her exit the house as quickly as she can. He takes another glance at the mountains and his heart plummets at the sight. The fire has crept over the ridge, and he can hear the distant crackling as it runs forward. Kita's eyes trail down to a figure by the bank on the opposite end of the river and recognizes you. His chest constricts with relief and concern at the sight. He tells granny to walk down to the next door neighbor, to see if she can evacuate with them. He has to lower his head to her ear so he can be heard over the sounds of the sirens and the voice on the intercom.

He starts jogging towards the bridge, to cross it, but you yell his name. It’s loud and fierce, a demand to stay put. It has a firmness that forces him to listen.

His feet stop, now directly across from you. He can see your face, the intensity in your glare. You’ve never looked at him this way.

“Don’t come!” you yell, voice almost lost over the commotion.

Kita is frowning, brow furrowed and mouth open in disbelief. He doesn’t have time to yell back before you continue.

“You have to go, Shin!” You shout. Kitas chest is heavy, and his shoulders are rigid. The flames are growing closer, rolling down the mountain. There’s a gust of wind and it blows the smoke towards the village. He can feel the heat of the burning forest.

Suddenly there are popping sounds, loud like fireworks squealing and shooting through the air. He doesn’t understand where they’re coming from, what they mean. They don’t stop, ringing through the valley and compounding with the blaring alarms, the warning voice on the speakers.

Kita doesn’t want to leave. When he looks at you, the despaired expression on your face and the many layers of hurt—layers he doesn’t understand, has never understood because he never asked—he knows that he can’t leave you. He has to do something, he is restless, like a child waiting for something that has no regular pattern, no rhyme or reason to be there in the first place. You, visiting him in Osaka.

But you won’t have any of it. “GO, SHIN!” you yell, voice booming—akin to a clap of thunder. The popping and splintering noises grow louder, and it strikes him that they are from the bamboo at the base of the mountain, the moisture in their chambers expanding enough to turn into deadly explosives. He sees a flock of birds lift from the forest behind you and fly east.

He tastes salt—tears, rolling down his cheeks and through his open lips. His voice is choked as he yells back in a desperate attempt for you to leave with him.

“I’m yer burden,” he reminds you, face scrunched in pain. His voice isn’t as loud as it should be, for you to hear him across the river. But he knows you can anyways, knows that you know he means don’t leave me, I’m the one you’re supposed to look after.

You smile sadly. He can’t tell if you’re crying too, but he can feel the same pain on your end. Your voice is equally too quiet to be heard when you respond, but it rings clearly in his mind.

“But I’m not yours.”

Your gaze is looking behind him, beyond him. He turns and his eyes widen, spotting granny slowly making her way down the path. His stomach churns—she didn’t catch the neighbor driving away. She’s coughing, unable to walk at the same time. With the smoke blowing over and granny’s old lungs, she can’t carry onwards alone. Kita hears himself curse and he rushes to her side, no hesitation as he lifts her frail body against his chest. Her head lands against his neck—her hair soft against his—and she coughs another long fit. He knows he has to leave. 

He takes one last glance at you, then at the fire crawling towards the now-emptied homes on your side of the river. The heat is increasing, blowing towards him with more smoke and ash. Five deer appear from the woods behind you and run across the bridge. You are staring at him, urging him to follow their example. He knows that he has to take care of granny, but he thinks this is the most pain he’s ever felt, buried deep in his chest. It’s the kind of pain that comes from hollowness, recognition that something vital is missing and yet somehow life is forcing him onwards regardless. He doesn’t know why this tension is there, when there’s a clear job for him to do, to do well. His face pinches, another round of tears welling before he blinks and turns to run down the path.

In this moment, he summons that unwavering confidence he has in himself. Not one of arrogance, but from the knowledge of what he is capable of, what he does everyday without failure. He runs east along the river, clutching his grandmother close. He tells himself this is any normal day of training, running to improve his endurance for volleyball. He is running besides Suna-san, who’s looking for a shortcut. He is running behind you, on your way to explore the enchanted section of pine in the mountain.

He is a toddler, carried along the path next to the river by his grandmother, seeing a mysterious child his age standing in the water. He asks who it is, pointing to a figure that granny can’t see. She tells him that he’ll learn one day, when the time is right.

He is sprinting down the same path, through smoke billowing over the valley erupting from a fire to his left, separated only by a river. Separated by you.

The honk of a car sounds behind him, a noise he barely catches with the sirens and the voices and the explosions pounding around him. He turns and sees the car of another neighbor, ushering him to get in. He veers to his left, letting the vehicle pull up beside him, and he yanks the door open, climbing inside with granny still against his chest. They lurch forwards as the driver steps on the gas and Kita guides granny to the seat beside him, reaching over to buckle her in. The interior blasts cool air and Kita is handed a water bottle.

“The fire department’s tellin’ people to evacuate to the next city,” the neighbor says. Kita nods numbly in response, unscrewing the bottle and helping granny take a few sips. She still coughs, but they’re smaller, less frequent.

With granny somewhat stable, Kita looks out the window to his left, facing the burning mountains. The car nears the ramp to the highway, starting up a mountain east of the fire. It gives him a clear view of homes being swallowed, Fujiwara-san’s one of the first.

Kita is breathless at the sight, reminded of everything these people will lose. He recalls what is already lost: the forest, the animals, the delicate combination of life that dwells in this valley. He thinks your mountain will be lost too, watching as the fire creeps west.

The popping sounds are dwindling, with the fire moving past the burnt bamboo sections and the car speeding away from the scene of destruction. But it is not quiet. There is a sudden clap of thunder that rumbles, long and gritty and deep. Kita watches as winds blow ferociously. Untouched trees sway while burning ones topple from the force. The sky is dark, a mix of smoke and storm clouds, though Kita isn’t sure when the storm began to form. He can see the water falling from the sky, blown at a sharp angle from the strength of the wind. It pelts over the mess of heat, releasing bouts of swirling steam into the air, to condense back into rain clouds.

As the car climbs higher up the mountain and the road, Kita watches the battle unfold before him. The power of rain as it fights the flames of red and gold eating the landscape. He watches the mist rising at the contact between elements, the water evaporating on impact.

He sees you in his room, that first time in Osaka when you were startled by a knock on the door. The way you went poof and disappeared.

They house granny in Osaka, taking over Kita's sister's room since she's at university in Tokyo. Kita is the one who looks after granny most carefully. It reminds him of caring for his brother when he first came to the city. He learns that granny’s house wasn’t caught in the fire. The river was an effective barrier and the rain came in time to manage any embers that had gotten blown over. The reports on the event stated that it was a miraculous storm, one that came from nowhere, completely unpredicted. It was an eventual downpour, enough to contain the fire within minutes and smother it completely in less than a half-hour. Footage from a helicopter shows the water rushing down the gullies and pouring into the river. With it carried embers, soot, ash, all piling together and flowing downstream. The next town down the river reported black water filled with sediment. A truck came in to deliver hundreds of cases of bottled water.

Aerial images reveal that nearly every house on the northern bank was claimed, only a few saved towards the east. He sees photos of the destruction. Your forest didn’t manage to escape in time, the fire stealing your enchanted pine. He wonders if you could have saved it if you didn’t prioritize his home.

There was one death: a backpacker, the person everyone believes is responsible for the disaster. Her body was completely charred, things almost entirely unidentifiable. Emergency services only picked out the metal of a stove—the decided perpetrator.

Kita has no time to grieve, with only a week before school starts again. After helping granny get situated in the house, he immediately goes to practice as a distraction. His teammates are appalled at the news, offering pats on the back and words of condolences, sighs of relief that he was lucky to leave in time.

But they don’t know what he lost. Not just the forest and the mountains, or the ability to visit his real home for months at the earliest. Even with the fire out there may be coals smoldering underground, or dangerous air wafting in the sky. The mountains won’t be green for at least a year, needing time for seeds to take root and sprout, needing seasons to accumulate rich dirt again. There’s no telling how long it will take for animals to return, birds to nestle back into shrubs or rodents to burrow again. The wolves and the deer are surely gone, evacuated to the next viable plot of land.

These aren’t the worst of his losses. What grasps his heart tightly, enough that sometimes he struggles to breathe, is the sight of you running into that smothering roll of flames. The loss of your eyes watching over him.

He dreams of fire, of heat and searing pain. His mind flashes with streaks of red and orange, billowing greys behind it. He hears the crackling of a burning forest and the popping of erupting bamboo. He wakes up panicked some nights, coated in sweat from the searing sensations he conjures in his sleep. In these moments he thinks it would help if he could be with you, your body always cool and damp, the sort of comfort that eases him, that could put out the fires of fear that grasp him.

A week later during practice, coach hands out jerseys. Kita is called first, given the number 1—captain. He blinks in surprise, having expected it to go to Aran. Nonetheless he takes the jersey and the title, and sits on the gym floor. He doesn’t register that he’s crying until he sees the teardrops fall onto the fabric, little spots of grey appearing where it was originally white.

He can hear Suna’s comment about the unfeeling robot showing emotion. He doesn’t care. He sniffles. There is a warmth in his heart that he hasn’t felt the past two weeks. He doesn’t understand where it comes from, why this of all things brings him comfort.

He tries to explain while walking home with Aran.

“I tend to agree with the adults…that the journey is more important than the destination.” His words remind him of granny at home, the way her hair skipped over his dad and went straight to him. The ace turns to him curiously, not sure what he’s getting at.

“I am built upon the small things I do everyday, and the end results are no more than a byproduct of that.”

He’s not good enough to go pro or make a living off volleyball. He just does what needs to be done, what fits into his routine—taking care of his body, cleaning up after himself, being courteous, and…volleyball. He holds up this jersey, looks at how it’s branded with 1, the captain’s number.

“Maybe this is just another result of the things I do.”

Aran blinks, stutters for a moment when he realizes what Kita is implying. “Don’t just—don’t sweat the small stuff! You don’t have to have some sort of logic behind your feelings!! If you’re happy, then you’re happy…that’s it!”

They hold eye contact after Aran’s outburst, and then Kita erupts into laughter. The ace watches his captain skeptically, not intending for his heartfelt advice to be amusing. His shoulders slump when he realizes this is the hardest he’s seen Kita laugh, ever.

Kita is reminded of all those times he couldn’t understand what he was feeling, why he was being drawn to do something he knew he logically didn’t want. All the moments he saw you and felt skeptical of the questions he wanted to ask, the embrace he wanted to pull you in, the warmth he felt in your presence—the way his brain and his logic denied him something he wanted, because there was no explicable reason for it. He thinks of the way you left, the way it hurt like no injury he’s ever lived through. He thinks of the lack of your gaze following him since just two weeks ago, the way he misses it but refuses to admit to it.

“You’re right,” he tells Aran.

By the time school is ending and he plays his final match, you are still not watching him. He feels the eyes of his granny and the eyes of his school on his back. The brooding eyes of Karasuno are on him when he is subbed for Aran in the second set. But yours are still missing.

He, however, has his eyes on his team the entire game, picking out their mistakes and what he knows is the misguided thinking behind them: Gin’s impatience, Atsumu and Osamu’s carelessness, Suna’s laziness. He stands behind them, the defense specialist who will receive the ball, and the one who’s eyes linger on their backs. He is watching them. He is like the lingering mist that wafts behind them, telling them that someone will see, whether they work hard until the very end, or let themselves succumb to their impulses. 

Kita has lived his entire life under your careful gaze. To cope with its absence, he has learned to become the omnipresent eyes backing up his team.

Adulthood

Granny always told him that someone was watching, and your gaze was proof. But at some point he realized that he wasn’t doing it for the spirits, that it didn’t matter either way. His work ethic would be the same even if you never saw him. This realization holds more weight when it is carried out in practice, Kita living his life with the same repetition, perseverance, and diligence in your absence. It makes him feel good, eases the emptiness. So he does it well, and he does it everyday.

He graduates at the top of his class, with grades that could get him into any university, launch him into any career he could imagine. And yet when the year passes and granny says she wants to return to the valley, Kita knows where he will go.

When he pulls into the neighborhood, his eyes are glued to the mountain. There are still trees and bamboo standing, though they are charred corpses. Debris of coals and fallen leaves litter the ground, coating the forest in brown and black. A light layer of green sits atop the earthy tones, sprigs of saplings and shrubs breaking the surface. Kita’s chest expands at the sight, a glimmer of hope.

There are only a few other neighbors who have returned, most still with family in the city. Kita speaks with some of them and gathers that they figure it’s a sign to leave the countryside—to better opportunities and a more convenient life. He wonders what will happen to this village if everyone decides to flee, who will take the land. Maybe the government will turn it into a Hyogo heritage site, a place people will flock to as a sort of pilgrimage. To see the brittle remains of homes and the earth’s attempt at recovery.

Kita knows that he wants to stay here, that granny does too. He’s not sure how it’ll work, but he can’t imagine himself anywhere else. His parents are skeptical, figuring that he’ll make an attempt only to eventually fold for a city job, but they forget that one of Kita’s life pillars is perseverance. He will find a way.

The way opens itself to him the following day. The April air is cool when he goes for a midday walk, crossing the bridge to the burned edge of the river. He trails along the slight incline towards the skeleton of Fujiwara’s home. There is only the charred foundation and a couple ragged beams standing upright, the rest collapsed into rubble. For a moment he can imagine you, running from the back door and into the front room with a bundle of grapes. He hears the distant whispers of Fujiwara’s protests as he follows slowly.

Kita walks to the once-veranda, experimentally standing on the elevated foundation. The charred wood creaks beneath him, but feels sturdy enough to hold. He carefully ambles along the collapsed room, scanning the damage. He manages to cross the house and reach the back exit, and he pauses at the sight.

The ground outside is similarly littered with earthy debris, patchy with occasional new grasses and saplings. Fujiwara’s garden is gone, no more grape trellises or rows of starches. But there is a small square, less than a tsubo, dug into the dirt. Kita knows what this sort of sunken patch means, has seen them in some of the neighbors’ backyards growing up, flooded and filled with lines of grassy crop. He steps carefully from the foundation of the house and curiously stands over the square, imagining the rice that would be planted at the end of the month.

He hears footsteps from near the house and turns to see Mayumi-san, the one who drove Kita and granny out of the valley during the fire. She looks healthy despite being in her seventies, carrying a shovel and a hoe as she makes her way over.

“Ah, Shin-chan,” she greets him. “S’been a while, good to see ya again. What’re ya doin’ out here?”

He bows slightly as he greets her and explains that he was exploring the neighborhood, since he only just returned. He asks about the rice garden.

“I was testin’ to see how it’d grow, since the ash can help sometimes,” she explains. “I came back early after the fire, n’Fujiwara said I could use his yard since he’s probably stayin’ in the city with his daughter.”

An excitement sparks in Kita’s chest, like something clicked into place. He’s not sure what it is exactly, but he presses her. “How’d it do?”

Mayumi smiles, one that looks devilish and would be frightening if he wasn’t accustomed to seeing it. “Shit’s the best yield I’ve ever had. M’gonna try to dig a few more plots, maybe sell ‘em at the city markets.”

This is his way, he realizes. He sees the shovel in her right hand and hoe in the left and speaks before he can register the words. “Y’want any help?”

The rest of April is spent preparing the land with Mayumi and pouring over books on agriculture. He soaks in his elder’s expertise on the subject, in the abstract and the field. When the end of the month rolls around and the two of them begin sowing seeds, Kita thinks that for the first time since your absence that he feels whole. He is here in the valley, between your two homes, dedicating himself to the land that you led him through as a child. He thinks he can feel your presence while working, your hands misting over his, transplanting seedlings with him. The rains that come in are well timed, bringing rushing water down the mountain to flood the few squares of crops.

The days pass with granny, some quick and others slow. She does well in the village, with other people her age, though the company is sparse. Kita can sense that it’s hard for her sometimes, but like himself she is malleable to her environment, can make do as long as she has her routines. Her lungs aren’t as strong as they used to be, but she enjoys her walks and can maintain the chores—the ones Kita lets her.

When September comes in, Kita and Mayumi spend one sunny day harvesting. Kita wields his scythe carefully, the movement unpracticed. He grasps the dry stalks and runs the blade across the taut stems, bundling them on the ground to be collected. They gather the clumps and carry them to the house next to Mayumi’s—another neighbor who hasn’t returned since evacuation. 

Mayumi prepares a sheet across the main room for them to work on. Then they thresh the harvest, grabbing the bundles and smacking them against the floor, pelts of rice springing off the stems. Kita is reminded of water, of rain splashing against the surface of the river. When all the stalks have been emptied, they spread the seeds of gold with their hands, like smoothing the creases of a futon. The day’s work is over, now waiting for the crop to dry. They exit, leaving a few of the screens open to let new waves of dry air flow through.

Kita finds these processes fulfilling, like his own daily routine. It’s another series of tasks that can be learned and done well. The result is his own sustenance, something he can live off of and share with others. It tastes better, he thinks, once he’s experienced the entire journey.

He tells his old teammates that he’ll be in Osaka next month for the markets. They only have a few dozen bags to sell, but he wants to get his friends’ opinions.

The markets are energetic and amiable. Kita shares with curious shoppers the story of the valley, how the burned houses and their backyards left ash that the rice took to. People find the narrative compelling, and they buy the rice despite the hefty price tag. Other vendors are interested, some make purchases to try in their food. Kita enjoys the atmosphere, the way these people and their businesses are connected. He and Mayumi manage to sell all the rice they brought. It’s hardly a profit, but it’s promising.

The next day Kita is in the Miya’s home with the additional company of Suna and Gin. They talk about life, preparation for nationals, what they’re thinking of doing when school ends. Atsumu is going pro, taking volleyball as far as he can. Osamu is ending it here, contemplating career options. He says he’s looking for restaurant jobs; he wants to be a chef.

“Yer gonna be a farmer, huh?” Atsumu asks, laying back on the couch. “It suits ya, that simple life.”

Kita nods. “Knew I needed to take care of granny, that I was gonna be in the valley anyways. One of the neighbors was growing some an’ I asked to help—wanted to see what it was like. S’gonna take time, but we’re gonna try to get the land from the neighbors, see if we can apply for subsidies ‘cause of the fire. Then we’ll try t’upscale. The market yesterday was good.”

Gin sighs, “Ever the considerate and diligent Shin-chan.”

“The rice is good,” Osamu interjects. “It’d be good for onigiri.”

It is, it turns out. After three years, Osamu decides to leave the restaurant he started working for out of highschool and open his own onigiri store. Kita is their main rice supplier, and a customer who never has to pay. They have classic flavors in the beginning: tuna mayo, pickled plum, ikura. When Kita comes with his next delivery, Osamu sits him in the dining room and has him try new options. The former captain takes his job as taste-tester seriously, his diligence appreciated by the former spiker. They decide that the shrimp and beef flavors are ready to be sold, but the chicken needs reworking.

Kita gets into his truck that evening and drives home. The sun sets by the time he enters the valley, winding through roads in the black darkness. When he arrives at granny’s and exits the car, he sees that the sky is beautifully clear. The Milky Way spreads itself over the northern mountains, where life is still recovering, slowly but surely. He takes in the view for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet noise of the night—soft rushing water from the river, chirping insects, occasional wind.

He notices the blinking lights that cross the expanse of stars: planes and satellites. He sighs, remembering a time when he could sit on the top of the mountain and witness an unobscured view of the sky, taking up the entirety of his visual landscape.

Suddenly there is a shooting star, the most intense he’s ever seen. It’s a bright flash of light, he thinks for a moment white and orange and pink, that darts from the east and disappears as it curves west. Its trajectory gives the illusion that if it touched the ground, it would land on your mountain, that special enchanted forest.

After a few more minutes of watching, of relishing the awe, he makes his way inside. Granny is asleep, so he heads straight to bed.

When he wakes the next morning, for the first time in years—since that fire crawled along an entire mountain and you left to put an end to it—he feels the prickly sensation that he’s being watched.

Life doesn’t change with you watching him. Life didn’t change when you stopped. It’s something he knew, something you knew. He carries onwards, his routine of life, one that he does well and does everyday. He and Mayumi expand the fields again, creeping their business along the length of the river. Kita slowly takes on more farm responsibility, knowing enough to work independently when Mayumi needs to rest with increasing frequency. Granny is similar—she likes to help sometimes, with the easier work, but her lungs still struggle, never fully recovered.

It’s a beautiful morning, with cool air entering the house and light diffusing through the shoji. He can hear the birds and the rustling of leaves outside when he wakes, blinking away the lingering visions of orange and red from his dreamscape. He opens the screen towards the river while he puts away his futon and prepares for the day.

Granny isn’t in the main room as per usual. Kita pays it no mind, assuming she’ll be in soon. He makes breakfast and waits for her. She doesn’t come in on time. Kita stands to search, thinking she may have missed the time.

He enters her room and sees she’s still sleeping. He crouches over her to gently rock her awake, but there is no response. At that moment he realizes she is not breathing, not making a sound. He freezes, feels his heart plummet. He carefully lifts her hand from under the blankets—still warm—and checks to see if there’s a pulse. It’s quiet, flat.

He moves slowly, processing, sitting back on his heels next to her. His throat is tight and his chest—it’s hard to breathe. He shakily inhales through his nose and holds her hand in both of his. There’s a stinging behind his eyes and suddenly he is crying, weeping openly as he holds onto her. Death is the logical consequence of living, one of the only certainties of life; knowing this does not make Kita’s loss any less painful. While the hurt sits heavily in his chest, there is a growing spark of gratitude for her, that they were able to spend the beginning of his life and the end of her’s together.

Granny’s passing brings her closer to Kita, in a way. He feels that there are now two pairs of eyes on him, watching over him. When he looks in the mirror and sees his grey hair, granny’s hair, he thinks that he will always be a piece of her living on, that it’s his duty to live earnestly for her. He makes a shrine for her in one of the rooms of the house, placing her urn in the center. It is a beautiful grey clay, narrow and unglazed. A black thread ties the lid to the body.

She becomes another part of his routine, sitting before her remains and her images with his hands clasped and eyes closed.

Life goes on.

A month later he is in the field, tending to his crop. It’s late in the day, when the sun is near setting. The pink of the sky reflects onto the flooded beds, interrupted by sprigs of green. He inhales, appreciating the scenery, before exhaling and continuing his work. When he looks up a moment later, he is frozen by the sight.

There’s a wolf, large and grey, like the first one he saw as a child in the pine forest. He is not afraid, but in awe. A wolf returning means there’s prey: rabbits and deer. It means the forest is recovering, that creatures are finding their way back. He takes in the strong figure of the predator in front of him, sturdy and confident. A movement flashes in his peripheral, three pups catching up. Shin notices that one is nearly white, standing out from the others. He thinks of himself in Osaka, with his relatives.

When the pups catch up, the mother turns away and carries on.

Kita finishes his work before the sun fully sets. A light rain begins, clouds absorbing the vivid hues of sunfall, and he hurries to collect his tools before crossing the bridge home. The drizzling turns into solid pelting by the time he makes it to the empty house. He turns back briefly, squinting through the water collecting in his eyelashes, to see how long the downpour will last.

There’s a figure, at the other side, and his eyes widen in shock. He drops his tools and takes a few hurried steps closer, searching for confirmation.

Through the rain he can see you, standing at the other bank. You are smiling, he can tell, with your shoulders pulled upwards as if embarrassed. He thinks he is dreaming, that this is impossible. You, in flesh and bones, standing in front of the remnants of Fujiwara’s once home. He does not realize that he is smiling back, eyes crinkling and collecting water—his own tears as they spill—and grin spanning impossibly wide. His chest feels like it’s lifting, floating him in the air, to you on the other side.

Suddenly you are running forwards, not towards the bridge, but down the bank, to cross the water. Kita’s face flashes with concern and he starts down his own side, slipping through the mud. By the time he reaches the shore you have swum halfway across, long confident strokes despite the speed of the current. Kita marches forward, water touching his waist when he finally reaches you. He grabs your outstretched hand and tugs you into him, engulfing you in his chest and arms. You are as cold as the water surrounding him, but his body explodes with warmth at the contact, at finally being with you.

His heart races as he clutches you close, in an iron grip that refuses to relent. He thinks he hears you laugh against him, and he chokes out some strangled mixture of a laugh and sob. The water makes it hard for him to stand steady, so he brings one arm beneath you to lift you from the sediment and carry you to the bank. There he sets you down and grabs your waist firmly, staring at you with disbelief. You are smiling with all the glee in the world, eyes nearly closed by the force of it.

“I made it, Shin-chan.”

He doesn’t know what that means, but he thinks of the shooting star and the wolf, the rice fields filling easily without additional irrigation.

You lean forwards and wrap your arms over his shoulders, clutching him close. His arms come around your waist and he thinks he can recognize his feelings: relief and homecoming. There is a fullness, one that is close to painful, a pain he had been living with for years in your absence. He pulls you up the bank, to bring you into the house. He leaves his tools out, to be dealt with tomorrow, and goes straight for the genkan. 

You try to protest when he passes the spigot, “Shin, the mud—”

But he doesn’t care, kicking off his boots to be cleaned later. The mixture of river water and mud splatter on the tile of the genkan, leaving brown puddles and smears. Kita removes his socks and drops them behind him, letting his clean feet be the barrier between himself and the floor. He carries you to the bathroom, to deal with the mess together.

At night you are in his room, watching him set up the futon. He looks at you to ask, “D’ya need one?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Let’s share.”

His heart pounds loudly in his ears. He nods quickly and pushes the blanket aside for the two of you. He clutches you close under the soft comforter, your head slotting snugly in the space of his neck. It sends a shiver down his spine, the chilliness, but it coats him in warmth. He can feel his heart still racing, never fully calmed since seeing you. He feels those questions and thoughts bubbling up, words he always found unnecessary to say. Something about this moment lets him release them, lets him be curious about you.

“Didn’t know if I’d ever see ya again,” he says quietly, into your hair.

You nestle your head further into his neck. He can feel your lips against his throat as you speak. “It took a lot from me, the fire. Always need time to recover.”

His hand comes up to cradle your head, smoothing through your hair.  The image of the rainstorm flashes before him, the way the clouds swarmed from a previously blue sky to pour everything it had—everything you had—to put out the fire. He remembers the awe he felt, the sublimity of the view from a car fleeing the scene.

He doesn’t dream that night, his mind like an empty gulley, letting the soothing rainwater rush through him.

He cleans up after himself in the morning, retrieving his tools and mopping the genkan. It takes a while, though, interrupting his work several times to check that you are still in his room. You haven’t risen by the time he finishes making breakfast. A panic sits in his chest as he enters to wake you. You are still asleep, and he relaxes when he sees the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers.

He sits on his knees beside you and gives your body a gentle rock. Your eyes peel open after a moment of stirring, and you are already smiling. Kita thinks it brightens the room more than the sun streaming in, that life is breathed into him from you.

You notice the granny’s shrine at breakfast. After assisting with cleanup, you ask if the small urn is all the ashes he has of her. He shakes his head and shows you the drawer in the display, where a box lays with the majority of her cremated remains.

“I wasn’ sure where t’put her,” he tells you.

You have an idea.

Only a few minutes later the two of you are exiting through the genkan, dressed for a day in the woods. Kita has a backpack on, the box from the shrine tucked safely inside. He lets you take the lead, turning left down the path and towards the western mountain. He is reminded of his sixth birthday, running to the end of the dirt road for the first time, panting to keep up with you. This time you are calmly walking hand in hand, in no hurry. Kita squeezes yours tightly, a necessary action to express the feeling in his heart.

You smile at him, and bring his hand to your mouth, kissing the back of it. Kita inhales in surprise and you watch his ears turn red, giggling at the sight.

When you two reach the end of the road, the rock face is still standing sturdy. He can see burned trees standing at the base, your mountain not untouched by the disaster. However, like the other forests, it is recovering, hope sprouting in the form of ferns and saplings. He sees a rabbit scurry away and a soft smile crosses his face.

You head first down the bank and into the water as usual, him following with his hand in yours. The cool water creeps up, only up to his knees now that he is grown. The water is easier to navigate in his adult body, and he effortlessly steps up the rocks to the forest floor, ones he used to scramble over on his hands and feet. The ground crunches beneath him. There is a patchy layer of pine needles—short ones—spreading along. The ground is not fluffy from decades of accumulation, but it’s a start. Small saplings bring bursts of fresh green, prickly when he brushes against them. The ferns hide beneath them, avoiding the scorching sun.

History repeats itself as you pull him forwards, along the river and through the early rebirth of the enchanted pine forest. The fallen tree that once served as a bridge is miraculously intact, though the top is scorched and he feels unsteady walking to the other side.

Wandering through the forest is another type of home. He hadn’t taken it upon himself to explore since returning, not wanting to disrupt the delicate healing of the ecosystem. He trusts you, though, and the path you’ll lead him to experience the land without damaging it further.

He notices that you are taking him to a section that he hasn’t been often, not a regular spot during your times together as kids. But it makes sense when you arrive at the small clearing and he sees the massive pine from his memory. It is thick with twisting branches, sturdy. Some of them are blackened from the fire, but others are coated in fresh needles, long and green, waving gently in the wind. He is surprised he hasn’t seen this miracle before, from the house. Maybe the distance obscured the view.

Kita walks slowly to the base of the tree and looks up towards its canopy. He can see the contrast of the charred and ashy sections of trunk against the rich brown of its healthy, resilient branches. The green shines brightly against the black and grey, proud of its revival.

He shrugs his backpack from his shoulders, understanding that this is where granny should be. He lowers to his knees before he unzips the bag and carefully removes the box. It’s a light wood, with tan streaks running along the grain. Pine, he thinks to himself in disbelief.

He slowly unlatches the box and sets it on the bed of brown needles near the trunk. There’s a plastic bag inside, tied with a simple overhand knot. He undoes it gently, slowly unfurling it to roll open and over the edge of the box. It’s the first time he’s looking at her remains, he realizes, and he notices that they are grey, grey ash with clumps of small black coals.

You watch as he moves slowly, cupping soft remains in his calloused hands.

“It’s like your hair,” you say.

He cries, letting out soft, ragged breaths between quick inhales. His weeping lasts the entirety of the time it takes him to spread the ashes at the base of the tree, where it meets the ground. When he finishes you crouch behind him and wrap your arms around his torso. He continues to cry. You feel it, his chest heaving with grief and mourn, love and gratitude. He brings his palms to his eyes to wipe the tears, but they continue to fall, splatter the earth beneath him with feeling.

You listen quietly as his sobs fill the space between rustling leaves and distant cooing birds. Eventually you take one hand from his torso to rub his back slowly, soothingly. 

His noises eventually lull, quieting to the occasional sniffle. He gently pushes the bag into the pine box and then slowly closes the lid and does the clasp. He returns it to the backpack with careful, practiced motions. Your arms release him when you sense he wants to stand. He turns around to face you, you and the valley below.

He watches you closely, runs his eyes over your face, eyes and nose and lips. He wants to memorize your soft smile, the way it warms him like the sun.

You bring your hands to his cheeks, their coolness refreshing after crying so heavily. He leans into your touch and closes his eyes, soaking in the contradicting ways you make him feel—this tug between heat and cold. He feels you press a kiss on his temple, then the other. They’re smeared with the grey ash and black coals, transferring the dust onto your lips. He sighs, in peace, and brings his hands to cover yours. 

When he opens his eyes once more, he looks behind you through the space between the trees, to the valley below him, spanning wide. He is reminded of the thousands of years it took these mountains to form, the thousands of years it took for the forest to grow on top of it. He knows that the fire he witnessed was not the first to rage across the land, and it certainly won’t be the last. He takes in the growth and change that has developed in the past few years, sparkles of hope in a collapse of despair. He recognizes that the destruction is an opportunity for something new, for him to be part of building the next beautiful forest that will rise.

He has lived for what feels like forever, and yet an entire life lays ahead of him. A life with the forest and the mountains and the river. A life with granny’s spirit watching over him, her hair and remains guiding him forwards. A life of working the land and growing something for himself, for others.

A life of unnecessary questions, ones he struggles to ask. A life of inexplicable feelings, ones he’s learning to let in.

A life with you. Here.

i know i said minor character death and then killed granny,, she's a minor character in haikyuu!! but she is a main character in my heart

anyways here's the afterword

[kryscent]

tsuki no hikari ☆ 2

an: it's 1.45 I promise I will format this later today. please have these crumbs as I have awoken from the depths of tumblr trenches - school has been cooking me but I am the chef now

pairings: opla!zoro x gn!reader

wc: 1.5k

content briefing: slow slowburn. canon typical violence (description and dialogue). the east blue saga. lore heavy!reader. multi-chaptered work so expect fluff, angst and suggestive content ahead. alternating povs. the reader used to go by the name hikari but is not an oc (i promise its for the plot)

synopsis: a vigilante of sorts, you roamed the east blue without any particular aim, until one odd mission pulls you back into a part of your life you'd almost left behind, meeting someone you'd almost forgotten.

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When you trench-crawled into the circus tent, Zoro was mostly taken aback by how invisible you were to his notice – he didn’t even know you were there until you got to your feet, staring at him, before walking right out. The other part of him was rattled by the shockingly familiar kitsune mask on the side of your head, resting at your temple and streaked with sandy dust.

An unnerving stillness, he has to turn to look to know if you’re behind him by a half-step, or leaning on the wall with him. It messes with him – his senses are sharpened as far as they can go, from years of gruelling training and meditation, and yet, you dodge and elude every barricade of his perception with hushed ease. It's achingly intrusive, a nagging thought at the edge of his memories.

It's when you introduce yourself – as a Shimotsuki scholar, not specific to the swordcraft of the village but the region; shinobi – that the nagging ebbs away to the recesses of his consciousness, clearing the path like the rising tides at dusk washing away sand that had settled at noon.

The sifted sand settles, murkiness giving way to diaphanous caustics when he realises where he had last seen that shroud; that kitsune.

Porcelain white, ribbons and curves painted in bleeding crimson in crescents, meandering around the eyes, looping into the temple and swirling the swell of the cheek.

Turning away after receiving the Wado Ichimonji from his sensei; the day is dim, cloudy; gaze rising from the sword in his outstretched hands to sweep mindlessly over the students in funeral garb – a white belt over their black gi replacing the usual emerald – his eyes catching onto the bone white mask in a sea of solemn faces; his stomach dropping at the haunting expression of the wearer, or lack thereof, shadows bending into the crevices where their eyes should be, hands folded neatly on their lap.

When Zoro isn’t spending hours upon hours in solitary training, he doesn’t have much to do – he used to spend time running through the forests, climbing trees and jumping into slow, deep-enough rivers with Kuina – he now lacked that companion. A companion. Not that he thinks company was necessary to have fun, of course, but it’s whatever.

So, instead, he dedicates his time to discerning the weird, freakishly quiet student, who for some reason only appears for four months a year. He asked sensei why they visit so randomly, and he said it's because they travel to different villages to study different subjects in rotation by order of an Emperor of the Seas – which Zoro thinks is stupid: there’s only one subject worthy of dedicated learning, and that is swordsmanship. But whatever. (Implore. He’s only eleven years old. His worldview is green.)

“Hey,” he kicks a rock in your direction, where you’re advancing through the katas you’d apparently modified yourself, alone in relative silence aside from the sharp “hai” you raise at the end of each progression, and the distinct whoosh of your wooden katanas whipping through the air.

You pause momentarily, nodding in acknowledgement, before resuming and beginning the next set. “When did you first come here?” he asks, drawing his foot out to the pebble to drag it back to him, to kick it around. “Last year,” you hum, breathy from the exertion of holding out two swords. The year she died. You probably didn’t get to meet her, he ponders numbly, kicking at the ground a bit harder. (You did. Kuina knew you, and liked you well enough to speak to you more than once. But it is not for him to know yet.)

“What's your name?” he asks, staring at you. You tilt your head mid swing, wondering what to say. “Dunno, but my Sofu used to call me Hikari.”

“How old’re you?’’ You raise a brow at the barrage of questions, sweat trickling down your hairline. “Eleven.”

Oh. Same age. She was a year older. She is twelve this year. Would have been.

Despite your fluid movements, whetted but poised, there’s that creepy stillness that he doesn’t like – you complete each move decisively, firm, but you’re still nimble, light footed. Like a bird preparing to take flight, a cat arching its back before leaping away. ‘Ready to run away from a fight at a moment’s notice,’ he thinks to himself, nose upturned with contempt, ‘Like a coward.’

He decides he doesn’t talk to cowards, because they’re weak, and walks away right as you turn at the lack of response, sudden silence, rock flicking at your ankle.

That was the first and last time he ever bothered to approach you.

He observes how you stand close at Luffy’s right, Nami on his left, nodding along to his requirements for his dream ship. Your light footfalls down the wooden boardwalk to the shipyard contrast his careless ones as Nami suggests sneaking away with one, and he stops in his tracks.

‘You want to steal a ship?’ Luffy, for once, has no trace of a smile on his lips when talking to them. Nami only sighs, exasperated. ‘How else did you think we were gonna get one? Pay for something we can’t even afford?’

‘There’s a lot of hardwork and effort that goes into the craft,’ you murmur dimly, casting a sidelong glance at the numerous workers – their arms glistening, shirts sweat soaked and dusted with sawdust from carving wood in the hot sun – and you square your shoulders, standing upright. ‘It’s not…fair to that labour; to take advantage of what they reap.’

‘The awesome ship that's gonna get us to the Grand Line,’ he counters, voice firm as he nods in agreement with you, ‘–is as much of a member of our crew as the rest of us. And if we’re going to get a great ship, we’re gonna get it the right way.’

‘Yeah you can pitch that to the salesman, I’m sure he’ll strike a deal with that story,’ she shoots back, glaring at the both of you with her voice dripping with sarcasm, but it doesn’t register. He beams, throwing finger guns. ‘Exactly!’ Zoro’s eyes fall to you as you laugh lightly, shaking your head, before Luffy pulls you along by your hand without much protest from your side.

‘So what’re we actually going to do?’ he rests his wrists on the hilt of Wado, watching you go. ‘I don’t know,’ Nami drops her arms against her side. ‘Guess we’ll just have to scope out and see how lax the security is around here,’ she tilts her head with a tired smirk.

‘Got it.’

Luffy knew you; going as far as calling you one of his best friends, despite not having mentioned you before. You seem to be… good, a lot like Luffy when it comes to big dreams and unshakeable morals. There’s a lot he doesn’t know about you, he surmises, looking away to peer at the multitude of handmade vessels, most with only a frame of wood to call a hull, and others, rarer, are honed to perfection. Like the caravel in front of him, a ram as a figurehead, with Luffy clambering up the makeshift scaffold staircase to get to it, with you in tow. His eyes stray from the ship to you, the relenting agreement to go wherever Luffy drags you, the glint in your eyes, the curve of your smile- stop.

Zoro knew there was something familiar about you, unable to put his finger on it until you introduced yourself fully, so he knows enough now. Cool. Normal.

It gets abnormal when he realises he wants to know more.

More than just your name, than what's good for him. For his goal.

Shaking his head imperceptibly to himself, he eyes up the catwalk, squinting in the sun as Luffy chats with someone on board, holding a rag. As the trio of you make your way down, he studies you (doesn’t even realise he’s doing it), paying heed to how you stay close to your captain and don’t say much at all in response to their conversation aside from amicable nods and sparse laughter.

‘Guys, this is Usopp, and he’s gonna sell us his ship – it’s the one,’ he nods solemnly, patting Usopp’s hand.

‘Uh– technically it’s not my ship, and I’m not a salesman,’ it sounds more like a question than a statement, and Nami narrows her eyes at him. ‘Do you even work here?’At her cynicism, the guy aligns himself, straightening his shoulders.

‘’Course I work here! I’m the Chief Officer of Encrustation Removal and Aviary Waste Disposal.’ To his credit, his confidence is unwavering and Luffy nods, jaw-dropped, along to the contrived title. ‘He scrubs barnacles and cleans bird shit,’ Zoro calls bullshit, scuffing his boot against the planks.

Usopp falters, but soldiers on. ‘But…I do know the person who owns it – owns the whole shipyard ‘fact,’ he smirks, gripping Luffy’s shoulder and giving it a firm shake. ‘She’s my best friend; rich rich. I can take you to her, if you’d like. Help strike a deal maybe?’ Nami smiles at the swordsman, and he shrugs noncommittally. Deals? Now that was something she could get around.

‘I’d love to meet her.’

kryscent '24

do not copy repost etc. likes and reblogs are most definitely appreciated!

dividers by @cafekitsune | gif by @divineandmajesticinone

taglist: @gaslysainz @janedoe-69

taglist is open! lmk if i missed out on your tag <3

[ghoularaki]

baby's breath | 3

↠  summary: Merely by coincidence, Erwin, your father's former friend had crossed paths with you again after nearly a decade. He offered solace once finding out you were struggling with not just school, but your home life as well. His home he shared with another one of your father's friends, Levi, became a sanctuary. Though, the more you came over for study sessions, the more they wiggled themselves into your private life. And like baby's breath, they weeded themselves in so deep you couldn't uproot them.

↠ word count: 3,824

↠ pairing: levi ackerman x reader x erwin smith

↠ genre/warnings: angst, smut, modern au, DARK CONTENT, yandere, noncon/dubcon, daddy kink, forced infantilism, pet play, age gap, death threats, human trafficking, bdsm

When Erwin came home elated Levi knew to be cautious. The larger man rarely got excited over anything really. For years, the two had dabbled in the darker side of business. After so long, it’s hard to really say what started it and why they do what they do.

Levi had grown up on the streets and seen the horrors the world had to offer. A dog eat dog type mentality had stuck with him. If he wanted to point fingers, he could place the blame on his uncle for getting him looped in a sex trafficking ring. He wasn’t proud of what he did: alluring women and men alike to damned them to a life of suffering, but the guilt dissipated.

He got paid good money to step on the backs of others. A man could only handle filth for so long. Levi was able to leave the depths of hell and crawl his way to normal civilization. Within two years he could afford his own home on the outskirts of the city.

Erwin was nothing like Levi. He didn’t join the ring out of desperation, but out of curiosity. A deep hunger grew to see how far he could take it. Watch how he could puppeteer a human’s life and reduce them to smaller bits of themselves.

At the time Erwin had gotten his first job as a professor. They met on pure coincidence as Levi was under the guise of a janitor to scope out new recruits. Again, Levi couldn’t remember how the topic of conversation came up of his real profession, but Erwin's eyes flickered with a sadistic twinge. Erwin wanted to help. He knew his charm and how to convince any man to follow him blindly would be beneficiary. He did have a way with words afterall.

And apparently so as Levi let him into his world.

Within almost a decade the two had created their own ring separate from Levi’s uncle. To this day it flourished. Money was never an issue on top of Erwin’s income as a professor.

So when Erwin came bursting through the front doors with a wide grin on his face Levi was perplexed. The large man never got this happy over a new recruit. A sick apathy mixed with pleasure usually present on his visage, never a smile.

“I found her,” Erwin said, hanging his coat on the rack.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know how I wanted a personal pet—”

Levi groaned, “I thought we dropped this.”

“Let me finish,” Erwin continued while toeing off his shoes, “This isn’t some girl I’m picking off the street. I used to know her as a child and she’s just… God, she’s perfect, Levi. I tested it out since I took her out for coffee and she was so obedient. She’s hesitant at first, but with a little push, she was so good.”

Crossing his arms, Levi listened to Erwin rant, skeptical. “So what do you want to do?”

Erwin turned sheepish, “I invited her over for tomorrow.”

“You can’t just spring this shit on me,” Levi pinched the middle of his eyebrows in exasperation. Erwin had a problem of bringing home strays.

“She’s different, trust me.”

“We will see about that.”

~*~

The next day when you came over, Levi had no clue what to make of you. You were not what he was expecting. He didn’t think you would be so young. Maybe in your late twenties or even thirties, but not a young woman still an undergrad. Also you were not any bit obedient as Erwin made you out to be.

You had a mouth on you and loved to give Levi an attitude. Your nonchalant questioning of when he answered the door instead of Erwin sunk deep into the man. A want to bend you over his knee itched and burned under his skin. Erwin definitely did this on purpose. He knew how much Levi loved to play with his food.

Though, a tiny part of him softened when he saw your love for tea. You also didn’t question his odd way of holding his cup. Curious eyes glanced before going back to the topic at hand. Erwin diligently helped you with your homework as you soaked up his words. You had no clue this was a trial run.

And you unknowingly passed.

The more time you spent with them, the more Levi wanted to pick you apart and study you. You were an unbearably independent person. Any help offered besides Erwin’s assigned tutoring was met with a multitude of refusals. Even when the secret came out that you were homeless surfaced, you still didn’t want to live in their—well Levi’s—extravagant home.

Your disregard for them offering you a life of comfort was even off putting to Levi. But he had to admit, if twenty-two year old Levi had someone open their luxury home to him, he would be suspicious. This only furthered his interest.

But time withers even the hardest of stone to sand. Over the course of a few months, Erwin had slithered his way into every part of your life like mold. Any foundation you had Erwin engrained himself deep into the grout. A type of spore you couldn’t scrub out.

Levi had taken a backseat to Erwin’s process. This is what the two men usually did when luring victims in. The shorter man would scope out new prey while Erwin hooked them in with promises of riches and to be Erwin’s new lover. You were different. Whether this was to your benefit or misfortune twisted in Levi’s head. He wasn’t stupid to the type of men him and Erwin were. You were bound to crumble in their hands. For your sake, he hoped Erwin wouldn’t get bored as fast.

Though, he was still tempted. He tested the waters by trapping you against the counter. How could he not with how much you poked and prodded him? The mouth on you encapsulated him in a way no other person had. Usually backtalk infuriated Levi to the point of violence, but the need to hurt you was something some would argue was far darker.

So when he easily pinned your leg to the counter and your pathetic attempt to break free, planted the seed Erwin wanted to engrain in him from the beginning. Sure the man chewed him out later that day since you almost opened the door, but he only met him with typical apathy. You were bound to find out eventually and frankly, Levi was too old for this game of cat and mouse.

The tension never left the home. He was sure you thought you were to blame, but the bubble waiting to burst was between the men of the household. Erwin didn’t want to scare you and have you flee, though the sentiment flew right out the window when he hit you.

Levi just about fought Erwin when he slapped you so hard blood poured from your pretty face. He squashed down the want, and coddled Erwin as he babbled and stared at his own hand in contempt. Grabbing a washcloth, Levi rubbed away the red staining his fingers.

“She will come back. Be patient.”

Erwin had a far away look in his eyes as they slid to Levi, “I don’t need patience.”

Levi pinched his brows in confusion. The man was being cryptic again. His confusion was quickly answered when over a month later, you stomped your way to the door. Pounding on the sheet of wood like a mad woman, Levi rubbed away the migraine forming.

Anger radiated around you. Levi didn’t know much of what Erwin did to get you crawling back, but it wasn’t good. You were spitting fire as you barrelled into the home. Levi didn’t have the energy to scold you. All he was aware of that day was D-day. No matter what, you were to be theirs.

The argument escalated and Levi’s questions were finally answered. He didn’t think Erwin was batshit enough to completely cut you off from everything. Impressed by his strategy once again, Levi stood back watching it all unfold. He honestly wanted Erwin and you to argue more, but when Erwin nodded to him Levi heeled.

Wrapping his arm around your throat and suffocating you was unnecessary, but he enjoyed feeling you struggle under him. How you clawed for oxygen. Humans are so fascinating and their primal instincts to survive. Levi wanted to instill at least a little bit of fear in you. No matter how much hot shit you think you are, he will always be stronger.

Your body fell limp in his arms. As he moved his arms to carry you, Erwin detached Levi from you. He wrapped his own limbs around your form in a princess carry. Levi followed behind when you were taken into the room designed just for you. Erwin’s pace reflected giddiness. He had been waiting for this day for years. A little baby doll for him to play with.

Levi went ahead of the lumbering man to open the door for him. Gently, Erwin rested you on the soft, carpeted floor. He had no idea when you would awaken and he didn’t want you to be startled by the crate. Plus, the crate was more Levi’s idea than his.

You had slept through the whole rest of the day and through the night much to Levi’s surprise. Anxiety radiated off of Erwin as he prepared for work.

“Call me if she wakes up.”

“No shit,” Levi answered, in the middle of finishing up Erwin’s lunch.

Neatly packing the food in a bag, he handed the food to him. Erwin’s eyes bounced to the hallway where your sleeping body resides. Levi ushered Erwin out and he obeyed.

With a sigh, he closed and locked the door. To be completely honest with himself, Levi was also growing anxious. Normally the toxin would wear off by now as it was seven in the morning. But, he did give a higher dosage than usual. He had no clue how much you would’ve struggled. Pacifying his own fears, he reassured himself you would be awake by this afternoon.

Walking into the bedroom, your body hadn’t moved an inch from where Erwin placed you on the floor. An itch built up from under his nails at the thought of the filth accumulating. You hadn’t bathed since early yesterday and were in the same clothes. Knowing the scratch won’t go away until you were properly cleaned, Levi bent down and took you to the bathroom.

Washing and dressing you was easy, but felt strange. Levi felt as if he was cleaning a doll instead of an adult. You were so lifeless, limp. Pushing the thought away, he went through your pants and found your phone along with your keys. The little metal piece reminded him your car was still in their yard. Pocketing the keys, his attention went to your phone.

His thumb pressed the side button and your phone activated. The soft glow illuminated his face as he spied your lockscreen. It was an old photo of you and what he assumed were your siblings. What a melancholy image. You clearly missed your family, but had no way back to them. Sliding up he was met with your four digit passcode.

After a couple tries, Levi cracked it with ease. Face buried in your phone, he closed the door behind him and crossed into the main part of the home. Levi instantly went into your messages. You didn’t have many contacts, most were either for work or college. The only active chats were between you, Levi and Erwin.

He moved on to your camera roll as he grabbed his own keys. They clicked together like tiny bells. Turning his attention to the door, he locked it with an audible click and moved to his truck. His curiosity would have to wait as he couldn’t drive and look at your phone at the same time. Pocketing the device, he got in his truck and twisted the ignition on. The black truck rumbled to life and sputtered a bit.

Twisting his body to see out the back window, he drove the car until it was right in front of yours. Jumping out, he grabbed a chain and hook. Attaching the car to your car, Levi grumbled under his breath at their stupidity. Leaving your car in the driveway for this long was an idiotic move. He only wished the neighbors weren’t paying too close attention. They were far away anyway and minded their business. But the problem was driving out in public. The best time would be at night, but the longer the car was here, the more suspicions would fall on them.

Slinking back into the driver’s seat, Levi planned to simply take only backroads. No one really drove in this part of the city anyway. His body shook from side to side driving down the bumpy, gravel roads. The tiny rocks crunched under his tires.

About an hour out Levi met with the lake he visited time and time again. The lake was secluded and not marked by any national park. Deep in the outskirts no one cared to know about. Childhood memories whispered in the air. Pulling up, his truck sunk a little from the soft ground. The area was more of a swamp than anything. The mud would welcome your car in its suffocating embrace.

Hopping out of his truck, Levi clicked his tongue at the wet earth seeping into his boots. Pulling out your key, your car beeped as he unlocked it. He opened the door and twisted your car on. Rolling down the windows half way, he then bent over to switch the gear into drive. Quickly, he ducked out of the car and watched as it drove into the lake. The water slowly swallowed the vehicle. Levi stood there until the car dropped deep, deep into the waters.

Satisfied, he went into the back of his truck and lifted up a shovel and started upturning the mud to get rid of the tire tracks along with his foot prints. Throwing the shovel in the bed, he climbed into his truck and drive back home.

By the time, he arrived back it was ten o’clock and you showed no signs of being awake. So Levi waited and waited, observing your resting form. He drank up how your chest gently rose and fell in tandem. You were so fragile and easy to break. If he so wished, he could crack open your chest and see what made you, well, you.

His finger traced down your chin to the middle of your throat and down to your sternum. He pressed down on the bone until a whine left your chest. Levi tilted his head at the sound, wanting to evoke more whimpers but he knew Erwin would be pissed if he bruised his little girl.

The day wasted away as Levi departed from the bedroom, and went to clean the house and get started on dinner. A tingle went down Levi’s spine, beckoning him to check on you. His instinct was right as he watched you struggle to take in the stimuli and hardly able to move.

When you registered Levi was also in the room, he didn’t expect you to freak out the way you did. Not to the extent of pissing yourself. A sick mix of desire and disgust filled him. He despised the mess flowing out from you, but Levi drank up how humiliation wafted off your form.

Erwin came in just in time. While the egregious man set off to wash you of your embarrassment, Levi went to work to scrub the carpet. Down the hall, he heard Erwin’s gruff voice bark out, but chose to ignore it. Erwin was a big boy and didn’t need Levi to come to the rescue. Plus, he wanted to test how long Erwin could tame his anger.

Once he was done, he made his way into the bathroom. He noticed the door was locked. Taking the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and put the keys back. Levi caught how your eyes honed in on the set of keys. What a sneaky brat.

He also noticed Erwin’s swollen nose and your now avoidant gaze. Erwin tried to shy away but Levi quickly grabbed his face. It was rare for Erwin to be bested. You were surely going to be a problem if you are leaving this hulking, brilliant man a babbling fool.

Dinner went how he expected. You were reluctant to drop out of college. He couldn’t blame you as your disappearance would be a ticket to your freedom, but they had to be thorough. Your already poor attendance only worked in their favor.

Annoyance built up in Levi at Erwin’s slip up, but he decided it was time for you to go back to bed. You must be exhausted despite sleeping almost two full days away. He could tell you were borderlining on hysterics once more.

Picking you up, he carried you back to the bathroom with pure intentions. Though, you still squirmed for whatever reason. Placing you down, he prepared the toothbrush. You hadn’t brushed your teeth in two days and that itch crawled back under his skin.

As he commanded you to open your mouth, Levi thought nothing of your contemplating glare. Pain shot up from his hand and down his arm.

“Shit!”

You bit him. You actually fucking bit him.

If his rationale wasn’t screaming at him, he could have killed you in that moment. A festering anger boiled as he slapped you back in return. The smile on your face stayed on despite it.

Blood dripped down his arm as he dragged you back into the bedroom. Even though the comment you made was a snide one, you were right. He would have to go to the doctor to get the wound checked out. The bite was deep and the blood had not stopped.

With Erwin’s promise to handle you until he came back, Levi set off to go to the urgent care. Walking by the bathroom, he grabbed a clean hand towel and wrapped his hand within the cloth. Stomping his way out the house, he slammed the door closed and went into his truck.

You were such a little fucking shit. You were in for it once he got back and he wasn’t going to hold back. Fuck what Erwin said. The only way you were going to listen was through harsh punishment. Pain was the best motivator.

Grumbling the whole way, Levi drove swiftly to urgent care. He didn’t care to deal with the annoyance and even longer wait line at the ER. Clutching onto his still bleeding, throbbing hand, he walked through the glass door with some difficulty. You were dead fucking meat when he got back home.

“How can I help you today, Sir?” An eldery woman with a monotone voice behind the counter asked. The clacking of her acrylics against the rickety keyboard grated Levi’s ears.

He held up his hand, “I got bit by a dog.”

“Oh my!” The woman gasped. She reached over with a clipboard and handed it to Levi, “Try to fill this out as best as you can and a doctor should be right with you.”

Levi nodded his head and went over to the vacant chairs. Surprisingly there was only two other people within the waiting area. Grabbing the pen, he wrote with ease despite you injuring his dominant hand. After years of fending for his life he taught himself how to be ambidextrous.

Almost half an hour passed when Levi’s name was finally called. The bleeding finally stopped, but he was sure he would need stitches. The nurse that called him was a tall man with dirty blonde hair. He wasn’t anything significant in any way.

“It’s just right down here.”

He led Levi down the sterile, blaring white halls. The doorknob unlatched with a mechanical crunch. The nurse continued, “So what are you in for?”

Levi walked himself to the examination table and shuffled himself on top of it. “I got bit by a dog,” he repeated.

The nurse’s face grimaced at the thought of the pain, “Yikes, let me take a quick look and then I will grab Dr. Zoe.”

He held out his hand for the nurse to unwind the stained towel. Levi barely flinched when the rough material was tugged from the skin it latched onto. The nurse cradled his hand and tilted the wound towards him.

His face pulled into one of confusion before schooling it, “The dog got you real good, huh?”

“You can say that.”

Clearing his throat, he let go of Levi’s hand, “Well, I’m going to get the doctor now. Try to keep your hand elevated above your shoulder to help stop the bleeding and the swelling.”

With that, the nurse left the room and Levi to his own devices. Boredom quickly ate up at his mind. Little could be done in the room and he didn’t care for playing on his phone. A part itched to explore your phone, but he broke it earlier today on a whim to scare you further.

So he sat there counting the minutes go by until another thirty minutes dragged on. Finally a knock was heard on the door.

“Come in.”

The doctor poked their head in with a goofy grin. “Why, hello! I’m Dr. Zoe.”

Levi grunted in response. He despised pleasantries.

The smile didn’t fall once and kept on, “So I heard you got a nasty bite. Have you cleaned it or taken any medicine at all?”

“No.”

Dr. Zoe went up to Levi and directed his hand towards them. Peeling back the cloth like the nurse did, their face pinched at the wound. “Sir, are you sure this is a dog bite?”

Levi’s expression pulled back in irritation, “How the fuck would I not be sure? I was there when the fucker bit me.”

“Whoa there!” Dr. Zoe laughed, “No need to be so aggressive, gotta be thorough, you know?”

Levi didn’t respond and simply glared at them.

Coughing to fill the tension, they continued, “Well the wound isn’t deep enough to warrant stitches. We still need to clean it and give you antibiotics. If the wound doesn’t clear up or show signs of getting better in two weeks please come back. Also remember to finish the whole prescription to avoid complications.”

Levi nodded his headd and let the doctor dress the wound, reminding him to change the dressing frequently.

He was half paying attention, lost in his own mind of how to properly punish you while he waited for the bite to heal. For his own sake, the short man prayed you lasted longer than two weeks.

[vulpisnocturna]

Hello there, I hope ur havin a great day ♡ may I ask for Gojo x virgin!reader w voice kink, if it's ok w u obviously 🖤 I just think he would be sooo sweet to his darling 😌

Of course lovely :)

15) free space (voice kink)

NSFW - MDNI

Warnings: virgin reader, voice kink, praise kink, dirty talk, experienced Gojo, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, vaginal sex, safe sex (on this blog??? crazy I know), Lawyer AU because why not, soft dom Gojo

His cerulean eyes were truly what people described and more. They had the effect that the Bernini statues had had on you when you had first seen them: awe and wonder at how an artist could carve marble to look like flesh and silk, how fingers curling on stone could look so soft and powerful. Gojo Satoru’s eyes were the same: they left you in marvel of the specks of hundreds, if not thousands of hues of blue, from the deepest depths of the ocean to a forest stream to the summer sky, all the way to the richest sapphires and the July fields of cornflowers in a meadow. They were framed by snowy eyelashes like snowflakes on ice, and try as you might, you could not accept that they were covered by sunglasses most of the time.

The first time you had seen them, you had forgotten how to speak. Now, because Satoru was a bit of a prick, he never did let it go. Once he had caught onto the fact that you had a crush on him, he had asked you out on a date. You were a lawyer green as grass at the firm he was partner at, fresh out of law school, looking to make a name for yourself in the law scene and make a change. Though his methods of arguing were unorthodox, Gojo Satoru was regarded as the best lawyer in the city. He talked way too much and often got cheeky with the Judge, which always made you slump in your chair and cringe inwardly like all the bones in your body had turned to soup, but somehow, his charm always managed to appease both the Judge and the jury.

Nanami-san said that if anyone other than Gojo tried his methods in court, they would be held in contempt in the span of five minutes without even having the time to utter “Your Honour”. He could do what he did because he was Gojo Satoru, but you still admired his speeches, his compelling motions, the way he could turn a case around at the last minute of the closing arguments as though it was second nature.

It was after a full day in court where you had had to cross-examine a very important defence expert witness that Gojo had kept you in the cafeteria at the afternoon break. You were sitting on a bench, trying to relieve the pain in your feet after wearing stilettos and standing behind the podium for hours, and drinking the watery coffee that did not taste like much just to keep yourself going just for another two hours, when Gojo had approached you.

‘That cross was quite the show’ he had commented, devouring a pastry, licking his lips when the strawberry jam inside it painted his mouth bright red.

That had been when Gojo had first taken notice of you. After that, he had insisted on getting a morning coffee with you, buying you lunch on the break and had even invited you to a dinner with the firm partners, and despite you feeling really out of your depth, he had managed to make you feel like you belonged with his easy jokes and cheeky compliments.

One week after the dinner, he had taken you on a beautiful date at a bar in the bustling centre of the city, where cocktails were served with smoke billowing from the glass and even just bartending looked like full-fledged artistry.

And now, after your third date, you had had a couple of glasses of red wine, and you had felt courageous enough to take him up on his offer to go back to his place. As a starting practitioner, you were living in a small flat near the courthouse, one where if you opened the sofa-bed, you would not be able to reach the kitchen unless you crawled over the bed. And now, you were in a penthouse with windows surrounding the living room, overlooking the skyline and the city centre. It was... extravagant and showy, two adjectives you would immediately choose when talking about him. And he was currently embracing you from behind, kissing your throat, sending your heart pattering like hailstones on a car windshield.

You hadn’t had the guts to tell him you were a virgin. You were out of your depth here as you had been at the dinner, but this, this felt so much more personal. This was... embarrassing.

Perhaps because you had been so busy with law school and then work, trying to stay on top of bills and rent, you hadn’t had time to date. You felt as though you had missed a big part of your puberty and early adulthood, and at some point, it had gotten to a point where “waiting for the right one” had turned into not trusting anyone enough with the embarrassment of still being a virgin. You had never been fully naked with someone, never done anything more than making out and shirtless dry humping. And he... well, he had a reputation as a womanizer. He looked like the type to have commitment issues, and God, you should not be involving yourself with him to this point, you should not give out your first sex experience to someone who might just want a one night stand with no baggage, but he had won you over like he won all of his cases.

And now, you were afraid to admit that you loved that peculiar, flamboyant man, and you wanted him to be your first.

But you did not know how to come clean with it. And so you were stuck in that predicament, turning into putty in his hands and growing more and more tense by the minute as his lips ghosted your jaw and your throat, his hands splayed on your stomach, holding you in place.

‘You are so pretty, sweetheart. You smell so sweet- you look so innocent, just want to see you look at me with your pretty teary eyes underneath me’ he murmured against your ear, and a shiver ran up your spine, your eyelids fluttering at the mere sound of his voice. He sounded... tantalising. It was as if his voice alone was enough to render you unable to think, enough to make your lower stomach drop and force you to press your thighs together to alleviate the throbbing between them. The huskiness of it, the sweet but sensual tone, his words... they were all making you dizzy. You could just hear him speak in your ear forever and you would never need to have sex to know what it felt like.

‘Satoru-‘ you breathed, licking your dry lips, and he turned you, picking you up and forcing you to wrap your legs around his hips. His lips clashed with yours, hungry and enticing, soft and ravenous as they sought to brand you and burn their likeness in your mouth. His tongue was warm and demanding against yours, and he tasted faintly of mint and spiced rum, a lingering tribute to the last drink he’d had. His teeth sank in the pliant flesh of your bottom lip, and he sucked, tearing a whimper from you that made him groan.

The sound that came from his throat did nothing to quell down your lust, rather, it poured gasoline on a forest fire, to the point where you were squirming and gyrating your hips against his erection in an attempt to find reprieve.

‘Eager, are we, baby? I like it’ he chuckled, and you burnt from embarrassment and sheer lust, gulping when you found yourself in his room, which seemed to be bigger than your flat, on a king-sized bed with the softest mattress you had ever felt underneath you. He was quick to take off his shirt, giving you a view of his flawless alabaster skin and the lithe body he was blessed with, one that was nonetheless quite toned and muscular for someone who spent his day arguing with people. He climbed above you, looking at you with those cobalt eyes that seemed to make the world stand still.

‘C’mon, sweetheart, relax. I’m not going to devour you- unless you ask nicely’ he winked at you, making you burn at the embarrassing joke and the connotations of his words.

‘I- I haven’t... had sex before. Ever’ you decided to rip the band-aid and hope for the best. Satoru’s reaction was not what you had expected. He looked perplexed.

‘You’re a virgin? You? You must have had a crowd of fanboys following you for years. Were none of them up to your standards? Were you waiting for me?’ he teased, smirking, almost as if he was trying to put you at ease with his light humour. You gave a nervous laugh.

‘Uhh, I was... busy- and never really got to that point’ you stuttered, wishing his stupid extravagant bedside table lamps weren’t on so he wouldn’t see your face.

‘Well, I am flattered you chose me. I’ll have to make it worth your time, yeah?’ he said, seemingly falling back into his charming self as he ran the pad of his thumb across your lower lip, making you hold your breath as you waited for his next move.

He cupped your face, drawing you in for a slow, sensual kiss that made your stomach drop and pebbled your skin with goosebumps. The touch of his fingers was a mere caress across your ribcage, your waist and hip, but you could tell that he was holding back, and he would have likely been much rougher had he not known that this was your first time.

His feverish lips traced a line to your throat, and he took his time savouring your skin, kissing and licking and nipping at your skin until you were sure you were nothing but a pliant ragdoll in his hands.

‘I’m going to make you feel so good, baby... going to make you addicted to this, make you my good girl’ he crooned against your skin, and your breath faltered, your teeth pulling on the corner of your bottom lip. He sounded sinful, alluring, like he was casting a spell on you. His voice alone, hearing him say that, the drop in his tone, the way his tongue seemed to caress every word like his fingers were ghosting your skin... it was already becoming too much to bear. You needed to feel more, and you did not want him to treat you like you were a fragile thing who would break at the slightest touch.

In your fantasies, ones you would take to your grave, he would just take you as he spewed filth to you, praising you and making you feel like you were the only thing he ever saw and wanted. You wanted to be his.

‘Satoru... you can be rougher with me’ you murmured, and his eyes seemed to gleam in the orangey glow of the lamps, a grin spreading across his reddened lips as his fingers curled around your hip.

‘Careful what you wish for, pretty girl’ he said, his hand skimming your body to settle on your ass, under your skirt. He was fondling the pliable skin there, his tongue dipping out to lick your cleavage. He helped you out of your top, his eyes devouring every inch of your skin, making you feel truly attractive and seductive as you watched him take in your features like he couldn’t get enough of you.

Satoru ran his willowy fingers over your breasts, ghosting over your stiff nipples, circling them before he pulled down the straps of your bra and snaked his hand underneath your back to unclasp it and toss it away.

You would have felt self-conscious, were it not for Satoru’s immediate enthusiasm as he dipped his head and kissed the skin around your nipple, his hand kneading the other breast as his tongue flicked your nipple and he sucked it. You arched your back into his eager mouth and skilled fingers, wishing he would touch you between your legs, because you couldn’t take it anymore.

‘So pretty- you’re so sensitive, baby. You want me to take this pretty little skirt off?’ he asked, voice almost mellifluous, and you nodded almost too eagerly, immediately averting your eyes and feeling your cheeks heat up with warmth as you watched him smirk. He unzipped your skirt, easily slipping it off you, and his fingers ran up your thighs, which parted for him instinctively. He hummed in self-satisfaction, eyes locked on your face as he cupped you through your underwear, making your breath falter and a desperate mewl escape you at the much needed friction, which still did not feel like enough.

‘You’re such a good girl. So wet for me’ he crooned, dragging his fingers along your labia, pressing slightly until you were squirming underneath him.

‘Please, Satoru- need...’ you whined, and he chuckled, lowering his head to plant a kiss on your clothed pussy, his tongue mischievously flicking you where your most sensitive spot was.

‘What do you need, sweetheart? Want me to take your panties off and lick your cute little cunt?’ he asked, so impossibly lewd and alluring that you could not help but moan, nodding desperately.

‘Yeah- need you to touch me’ you breathed, and he smirked, cerulean eyes bright and impish as he hooked his fingers on the hem of your panties and dragged them down your thighs, discarding them and immediately touching your bare skin, teasing your wet labia and kissing your thighs, inching closer and closer to your cunt.

He dipped one long finger inside you, and you were already clamping and throbbing around it, but when he curled it, you could not help the breathless, wanton moan that poured out of you. It felt too good to be true.

‘Such a tight little cunt. Need to get you used to my fingers before you can take my cock, m’kay?’ he cooed, and your head spun with the sheer desire that man could induce in you with just his voice and a single finger.

But when his tongue joined his hand and he flicked your clit, you swore you saw stars. Your hands shot to his snowy hair, and instinct made you try to squirm away, but Satoru would not let you. He pinned you down with one large hand and let out a gravelly groan, circling your clit with his tongue.

If you had known oral sex felt this good, you would have sought someone out years ago. But perhaps it was just Satoru, and he was annoyingly good at everything, including sex.

You were reduced to a sobbing, wanton mess as Satoru tormented you in the sweetest way there was, coaxing whimpers and moans from you as he sucked your clit in his searing mouth, added another finger inside you and pumped them, slowly at first, and then deeper and faster.

His fingers were so much different from yours: they were longer and thicker, and he knew what he was doing even better than you did. And his tongue... God, it was torturous.

‘Cum for me, pretty girl- cum on my face’ he said, and you were undone. Your orgasm rocked through you like a surge of electricity, making your body tense up and your thighs tremble, your ears ringing and your eyes full of tears, white splotches dancing in your vision as the tight knot in your lower stomach released.

You were bleary, worn-out and breathless when he finally lifted his head and slipped his fingers out of you, unable to even form words after the orgasm he had just torn from you. Your dazed eyes followed him as he lifted himself off the bed and unbuttoned his trousers, taking them off along with his black boxers, until you stared, eyes slightly wide as his cock slapped against his lower stomach, thick and long, the reddened skin contrasting with the neatly trimmed white hairs of his crotch and the pale skin of his stomach.

He reached to the drawer of his nightstand, grabbing a condom and ripping the wrapper with his teeth. He unrolled it over his cock, smirking at you and hovering above you, kissing you and rubbing the tip of his cock over your labia, making you whine and push your hips against him to get him to push in.

‘Shh, shh. I have to be gentle, don’t want to hurt you, baby’ he murmured, looking as though he was struggling to restrain himself too as he pushed in a little bit, until the tip of his cock pressed inside you, tearing a whimper from you. It already felt thick and as though it was filling you and stretching you, and you did not know whether you would be able to withstand any more.

However, with coaxing and shushing from his part, he was able to push a few more inches inside you, moaning as his head dropped in the crook of your neck, his breath uneven. Your eyes scrunched up and you gritted your teeth at the burning sensation inside you, taking small breaths and trying to relax your muscles even though your instinct was to tense up.

‘Fuck- you’re so tight. You can take it, you’re doing so well, sweetheart. Just a little more’ he praised, kissing you, forcing you to relax and distracting you from the pain you felt as he pushed. You gasped at the sudden pang of pain, raking your nails down his back, but the sting did not take too long to fade away.

The first push of his hips after the pain went away felt so good you could not hold back a loud moan, and your back arched into him, your eyelids growing heavy with pleasure.

He let out a groan, gripping your thigh, lifting it around his waist, deepening the thrusts until you were squirming underneath him, whining and pleading with him.

‘Good girl. You feel amazing. You sound so sweet, baby’ he crooned, slapping his hips against you, until you could barely breathe and were rendered incoherent by how good it felt, how it pressed against all the right places, how his words were guiding you through it, heightening the pleasure.

‘’toru- please... I’m so close’ you moaned, and he gave you an impish grin, pulling you into a sloppy kiss, his hand snaking between your bodies to roll your clit between his fingers, until you were quivering and writhing underneath him, gasping for air when your lips weren’t interlocked with each other.

‘That’s my good girl. Cum for me, baby. I’m close too’ he said, getting rougher, pushing deeper and harder into you, lifting one of your legs on his shoulder, his bright blue eyes burning into you, seeming to sear the image he was seeing into his brain.

A string of curses and slurred pleas left your mouth as it got too much to bear and the knot in your belly released, making you tremble with your orgasm, your field of view obfuscated with white, your muscles weak as his hips stuttered and his rhythm broke. He came with a breathy moan, his head thrown back in bliss, his lips slightly parted.

Satoru slumped next to you, a light sheen of sweat making some strands of snowy hair cling to his forehead, his skin almost glowing in the dim light of his room.

You dared to reach to his face and brush them away, and he closed his eyes, almost as if he was revelling in your touch. It made your heart tighten in your ribcage.

‘Shower with me?’ he asked, smiling slightly, and then his lips stretched into that charming, roguish smirk, ‘I can’t promise I’ll behave, sweetheart’

[void-wolfie]

Daddy Issues

summary: you sneak in through Sam's window one night to escape the rain and issues at home.

pairing: Samantha Carpenter x fem!Reader

tw: angst/fluff, mentions of abuse and alcohol

words: 1.37k

a/n: there was a different fic I was going to post, but I liked this one better

**if mentions of abuse are a trigger for you, I recommend not reading (doesn't go in-depth, but it is talked about)

You tapped on the window, hoping she was still awake. The fog coating the glass and the rain splattering your face made it difficult to see in. Just as you were about to give up, the window slid open and a pair of arms pulled you in.

"What are you doing here?" Her face was impassive, you couldn't tell what she was thinking.

"Uh, I'm sorry," you looked around the room, down at your feet, just anywhere to avoid eye contact, "I just- can I crash here for the night?"

She gave you a puzzled look.

"Your mom doesn't even have to know I'm here, I'll-"

"What happened to your face?" Within seconds she was in your space, grabbing your chin to better see your face in the dim lighting.

Oh. That.

"Uh, nothing. I got into a fight after school,"

It was a blatant lie, one she could see right through, "With who?"

"It doesn't matter,"

"y/n-"

"Sam, please."

She sighed, looking over at the door as if contemplating her options. If her mom ever knew you were here... yikes. But it was you, she'd do anything for you.

"Take off your hoodie, you're soaked."

You were soaked head to toe from the storm outside, having to walk here on foot wasn't exactly fun in the pouring rain, but you weren't sure where else to go.

You did as you were told, leaving you in just your sports bra and jeans. If you hadn't been facing the other way you might've caught the small glance Sam sent your way. The sight of you shirtless sent her thoughts running wild, she had to remind herself friends don't think those things about each other.

Those thoughts quickly left as she saw the state of you, though. Your sides were riddled with purple and yellow bruises. Most of them were obviously fresh, and she'd hate to see how they'd look tomorrow.

By the time you had it off and turned back around, she was handing you a dry pair of shorts and one of her hoodies.

You mumbled a thank you before going to get changed in the little bathroom connected to her room. The hoodie was a little big on you, but you could care less. It was warm, dry, and even smelt like her. The idea of you wearing something hers gave you butterflies.

You opened the little bathroom door and before you could even make it to the doorway, she pushed you back. She picked you up and sat you down on the countertop. She grabbed the little first aid kit she kept from under the sink and started cleaning the cuts on your face.

The one on your lip wasn't too bad, it'd probably hurt like a bitch in the morning though. The one across your eyebrow was worse. The area around it was already black and blue and you were lucky you didn't need stitches.

"You don't have to do that, you know."

"Don't move." She mumbled, "This might sting."

She poured antiseptic into the cut, and it took everything in you not to yell out in pain. You squeezed the counter and hissed, trying to hold yourself together, even if it was only for her.

“‘Might sting’ my ass," you muttered. You saw Sam smile at the comment, and all those butterflies from earlier flooding back.

After she was done cleaning you up, she put the kit away and led you back into her room, nudging you toward the bed.

"In."

"You don't have to-"

"I'm not letting you sleep on the damn floor. Now in."

You huffed. When Sam made up her mind, there was almost always no changing it.

You crawled under the covers and to the far edge of the bed, putting as much distance between you and Sam as possible. It's not that you didn't want to be around her, you very much did want to be around her. You just didn't want to make her uncomfortable.

Sam turned off the lights as she crawled under the covers, the only light left in the room coming from the nightlight in the corner. Still plugged in for those nights Tara would have nightmares and crawl in next to Sam.

"You gonna tell me who did that to you? Without the lies this time."

"Santa Claus," you deadpanned.

"I’m being serious."

"How do you know I'm not? That man breaks into homes for a living and people think it's cute-"

"y/n." She cut off your rambling. Even in the dark room, you could make out the deadly look on her face.

"Do we really have to talk about it?"

"Yes."

She was determined. You could see it in her eyes. If you didn't tell her now, she'd just find some way to pull it out of you tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, so on and so forth.

"My dad."

“Your dad did this to you?”

You nodded, playing with the strings on her hoodie to avoid making eye contact. Rolling the string up, unrolling it. Rolling it up, unrolling it. Repeat.

"Why?"

"He caught me trying to steal his bottle of Jack,"

"He pummeled you over alcohol?" If the look on her face was any indication, she was pissed. Nothing could’ve justified the beating you took, but all of this over a bottle of Jack. It was ridiculous.

She knew your relationship with your father was rocky, borderline abusive, but she had no idea how bad it truly was, you made sure to hide that from her.

You shrugged, "Can we stop talking about it now, please."

"Only if you promise to go get that checked out by the school nurse in the morning," she said, referring to the cuts on your face.

"And play 20 questions with Nurse Ratched, pass."

"y/n-"

"Sam, please."

You seemed to be saying that a lot tonight, and you weren’t really a fan. Begging wasn’t your style, not even for Sam. But you didn’t need to draw more attention to yourself than necessary.

Your mother died when you were little, car accident. Or, at least, that’s what your father tells you. If people start asking questions, well you had a feeling it would only get the authorities involved and you didn’t want that. Not when all they would do is take you away, put you in some foster facility, and you’d never see Sam or any of your other friends ever again.

Something in her resolve cracked. She let it go. Whether just for now, or for good you had no clue, but you'd take the win.

"You’re gonna fall off the bed sleeping like that." She switched the subject, referring to how you were perched on the edge of the mattress.

"Yeah, well, how do you propose I sleep miss know-it-all?"

She rolled her eyes, though, you could see a hint of a smile on the corners of her lips, "Get your scrawny ass over here, smartass,"

"Jeez, Sam, I don't know how I feel about you looking at my ass-"

She knew you weren't gonna move so she settled on moving you herself instead. She grabbed you by the waist and pulled you in, effectively cutting off whatever sarcastic retort you had lined up.

If your heart beat any faster, you were sure her mom could hear it from across the house.

Her arms were wrapped around you securely with your legs tangled in between hers. You'd be lying if you said you didn't feel safe. Safer than you'd felt in your own house recently, maybe even in years.

"Now go to sleep, we have class in the morning and it's already late enough."

Part of you wanted to wiggle out of her arms and go back to sleeping on the edge of the bed. But the other part of you was comfortable. Against your better judgment, you wrapped your arms around her and snuggled into her chest.

You were asleep in minutes. Sam could feel your erratic heartbeat finally slow, beating to the same rhythm as hers. She placed a light kiss to the top of your head before falling asleep herself, making sure to hold you tight all night.

[lonelystarrs]

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐬 .prt 2

𝐺𝑜𝑗𝑜 𝑆𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑢 𝑥 𝐹𝑒𝑚𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝐺𝑒𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑢𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑢

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Sometimes you have to abandon ship to save yourself, you just hoped there would be a shore in the horizon.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI • smut (Geto only in this part) • hurt / comfort / hurt • poly relationship • Angst chapter • Soft Geto •

Bickering between the two boys was nothing unusual, it was hardly a rare occurrence to have them butting heads over something that challenged each others testosterone levels. Satoru was usually the cause of it and as patience as Suguru was even he had a limit.

Satoru would stop sulking rather quickly, his attention span wouldn’t allow him to remain bothered by something for too long, he was easily distracted.

Suguru though had more depth than the six eyes, he thought more deeply and doubted himself easily, which is exactly what he was doing when Satoru had gloated about what had happened after the mission.

Satoru who lastly came into this little dynamic between you both was the first to have you alone and it happened behind Suguru’s back.

What bothered him is that you were willing. Those voices in the back of his head that caused doubt surfaced in a rather ugly fashion — as much as Suguru would keep up, he knew deep down that Satoru was always one step ahead in every aspect.

But this was something Suguru found difficult to accept because this entire time he felt he was slightly ahead of Satoru in regards to you. It’s why it bothered him, it left room for doubt to crawl under his skin —did you prefer Satoru? Did you harbour more feelings for him?

Not only that but he had noticed your growing discomfort, you were less bubbly, you weren’t smiling as much and you were pulling away —Geto was convinced you were.

The six eyed sorcerer was the source in his life that took away his doubt and that’s exactly what he was trying to do at present, it just wasn’t sugar coating his doubtful mind like it usually did.

“Ehhhh? Naaaaah!” Satoru waved his hand dismissively, his lips vibrating together in a pftttttt. Acting like Suguru had said the most ridiculous thing in their entire friendship. “-Why would she wanna leave us? She’s practically wrapped up in a handsome sandwich and she’s the juicy ham in the middle! No way. Two good looking guys, strongest and you seen those little love hearts in her eyes when-“

“That’s enough Satoru, something isn’t right you need to be serious for once. Think about someone else for a change, you’re shit with girls so your advice is the last thing I’d take.”

Even Satoru Gojo wasn’t settling the doubt bubbling in Suguru’s stomach like he usually did and it was creating a taste that was worse than those rancid curses he swallowed.

“C’mon she’s fine! You really that bothered I gave her fun time with Gojo’s penis alone?”

Prodding Suguru’s cheek playfully only made him swat at Gojo and glare at him, before shoving his hands into his pockets and slouch his posture before walking off. It didn’t take long for an arm to swing over his shoulders and playfully bump into Suguru.

“No, this is different it’s nothing to do with sex.”

“Y’sure? ‘Cuz It was so good Suguru, she was still full from us at that abandoned school, it was so damn sloppy, gives me a semi thinking ‘bout it.” Satoru chimed, side eying his friend to see his reaction and only smirked when he watched the dark haired boys shoulders tense.

“So you are bothered, I knew it~!”

“Get lost Satoru-“

“Tell ya what-“ suddenly stopped Gojo reclaimed his arm, Suguru walked a few strides ahead, “-because I’m selfless and the most incredible bro you could ask for, you go meet her alone tonight, I’ll see y’tomorrow.”

Suguru glared over his shoulder, not convinced Gojo was being so easily selfless and could hold up his word on actually being left out. The boys were both on their way to meet you and as much as Geto didn’t want to admit it, his friend was excited to see you, evident by Satoru was getting increasingly more giddy throughout the day.

Satoru seemed to be the only one who wasn’t aware that something felt off and it started to convince Geto that perhaps it was because he felt somewhat left out? It would make sense, he doubted himself a lot and this was more personal, this wasn’t work related what so ever.

But this would be a good opportunity for Suguru to assess what was going on —maybe even question you. You always were more honest with him, always easy for him to draw out what you tried to bury.

So he took the offer, waving over his shoulder at Gojo, Geto carried on in the direction to meet you, dropping you a text telling you he was five minutes away.

Geto >Be there in 5

You > Ok, I’ve made ramen for you guys, there’s something I want to talk about with you both.

The words churned Geto’s stomach and his pace slowed to almost a stop as he stared at the words on his phone, thumbs hovering over the illuminated screen as he swallowed thickly reading over it again and again.

“Uh, Suguru are you okay?”

Eyes rose up to meet yours at your front door, he blinked not realising he’d walked the entire length here silently, unnerved by your text.

“Where’s Satoru?”

Locking his phone he shoved it into his pocket, looking away to the side as if it not looking at you would ease the disturbance in his stomach.

“He isn’t coming tonight, it’s just us.”

Suguru couldn’t help but side glance at you, too curious to ignore what your reaction would be to it being just him this evening. Your jaw tensed, your gaze drifted and you chewed the inside of your cheek.

You looked disappointed and Suguru felt nauseated over it.

Ignoring it he played off casually and smiled, the facade only he could pull off so well because he was the best liar and manipulator out of three of you. stepping forward and tucking a strand hair that had fallen from your messy bun, using his soft charm to distract you from that apparent disappointment.

Then use a guilt trip to sway your concerns.

“Food smells really good, hasn’t been just us for awhile thought you’d be alright with it, I can leave if you want. I just still really wanted to see you.”

That should do it.

His heart jumped at the little doe eyed expression you gave and knowing you, you’d be worried that you offended him —because like him you were an over thinker. He smiled a little at your expression, passing it off as his usual softness not letting you see behind it that he was amused you took the bait of his words.

You were just so much less selfish that he and Satoru.

“I didn’t mean it like that! I’m sorry, I’m still really happy you’re here I just-“

You trailed off, that worry glistening in those pretty eyes of yours and the combination of his stomach churning but hope feeling his heart was damn awful.

“You just what?”

“Just wanted to talk to you both at the same time about something —it can wait another day, I guess.”

He didn’t miss your eyes glistening with something else, they were watering, he could feel your agitation and it wasn’t helping his doubt trying to win the race with hope.

“You can talk to me, what’s wrong?”

“N-Nothing, just forget it, please? Can we just enjoy an evening to ourselves instead?”

Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, you half turned to encourage him to come in and smiled at him so warmly, so convincingly lovingly that he felt that worry melt for a few moments.

Hope filled him more and more throughout the evening, winning that race against doubt, the food warmed him and his soul, he laughed with you and doted on you. Washing the dishes after you cooking then helping you put them away.

You cuddled into his side on the sofa, you played with that strand of hair that he left down because he knew you loved twirling your finger around it. You laughed when he pressed kisses over that spot on your neck that made you recoil because it tickled, laughing against your skin he just pulled you closer.

Fingers dancing up the sides under your skirt, thumbs rubbing in circles as he reached your hip. The airy moan that left you sent a pulse to his cock, your fingers threading into his hair until his bun loosened from the band.

He’d rolled you over so easily on the sofa, his lips on yours in some slow, yet messy kiss that felt so passionate it kicked his heart against his ribs.

The airy moans swallowed by each other, clothes still on due to no patience to remove them only undone to release pressure and aid access. The urgency consumed him and you, your nails biting into his back before skimming down to grip his bare ass under his now loose jeans, squeezing his cheeks as he nudged his cock head clumsily against your throbbing pussy.

“Please, Suguru,”

Your lips bit at his bottom lip, pulling it slightly before running your tongue over it. It made him curse against your mouth and inch his dick in slowly, feeling it pop as it pushed through that tight ring of muscle swallowing him greedily.

Your hips jolted, rolled and did everything you could to try to encourage him to fill you properly.

“M’gonna cum if you keep squeezing me like this,”

“Then do it,”

He groaned against your lips, your pleading tone hinted with a demand and you tasted as good as your words, your cherry lip balm smeared across his was removing any traces of those vile curses he swallowed.

“You need to cum first,” he muttered against you, pushing another inch in, “-that’s the rule remember? It’s always you first.”

He felt you clench around him and he chuckled at you, a breathy moan laced with it.

“I thought you liked being degraded, where did being praised come from?”

Satoru had said the same thing and it briefly took your mind back to that mission a few days ago, how lovingly yet messily he’d fucked you alone, then those texts he was receiving.

Those girls. The lack of feeling security from them. The unknown… the need to leave this situation. It had all dissolved in Suguru’s presence, it all went back to how things were before these worries took over.

And that would be fine, if you didn’t feel something for both of them now.

Your heart plummeted as your mind raced back to him, Suguru frowned noticing your stiffness, reaching up he cupped your chin, pulling his lip from your teeth and running his thumb over your bottom lip.

“Look at me.”

You did —stiffly, reluctantly and Geto seen it, he felt it course through his heart in a painful ache. He watched the distraction from the issue he knew was quietly brewing all but disappear in you.

“Just focus on me for now,” he whispered it, almost like he would hope it would calm whatever storm was brewing. He distracted you by filling you with a hard thrust, bullying the rest of his thick cock in and it was hard —your body jolted, the breath hitched in your throat as a gasp, pretty eyes widened and your mouth fell agape.

His mouth messily returned to you, holding you so close it was difficult to thrust into you under him on the sofa, his hips rutting into you in short close punches and it was sloppy. He could hear your cunt squelching as he bullied his cock in, you were so tight and warm, pulses being sent from his lower stomach to his cock as he drank in your moans.

This felt right, so right, no sorcerers, no curses —no ego battles or bickering, just you both again in a way he hadn’t had you alone.

He could focus on you and him for once.

“Y-You’re s-so t-thick S-Sugu-“ each word punctuated with his thrusts, each word stuttered because you were struggling in the most blissful of ways under him.

“Yeah? N’you’re so tight, so wet, you’re so good f’me.”

He loved the feel of your hands gripping his ass as he rutted into you, rolled his hips so beautifully you were starting to see stars, hitting something in you every time that you just couldn’t speak. You felt overstimulated and you hadn’t even cum yet.

“My good girl, is she gonna cum for me?”

His voice was so smooth, so calm before his tongue pressed against your neck, knowing that spot that made your cunt clench and hands grip his ass harder, stiffening under him as that build up rose too quickly under his praise.

“You really like the praise hmm?”

You nodded dumbly, practically clinging to him in hopes that taught line would snap, your orgasm at its peaking waiting for that one move to just push you over.

His hand left you, lifting your leg by the back of your thigh and pushing it up higher, angling his hips he buried into you deeper.

Kissing your throat he could feel you moaning against his lips.

“You’re beautiful, you sound good like this,”

Heat rushed up your neck, blooming on your cheeks and tears welling up in your eyes —his softness, his loving tone was just too much. Your heart swelled until the tears spilled at his praise, Geto noticed when the salty taste on his tongue kissed it away. Following the trail up to the source, he shifted to hover over you and rose a hand to cup your face, thumb swiping away under your left eye.

“Cum for me, then we can talk,” your name left him so softly, his eyes looking into your soul and he kissed at your lips so sweetly “-I’m here,”

“I’m sorry-“

He shushed you soothingly before kissing you again, swiping his tongue across your lip before meeting yours. The short hard punching rhythm of his hips meeting yours, thick cock spreading you open yet you clenched around him so desperate to cum when Geto rotated his hips and it brushed against that spot inside you it finally pushed you over the edge.

“M’cumming- Suguru there, there- I’m cumming,”

He cursed against your mouth as you clamped around his cock, pushing himself to the hilt and hips stuttered as he let you ride out your orgasm on his dick, moaning praise at you.

“Oh Fuck pretty, just like that —cum around that dick, feels good, your pussy feels so good.”

It was almost unbearable how close he was, slurring into your ear as he pressed fully against you, his body convulsing lightly in reaction to how you felt cumming his breath hot against your skin, fingers caressing whatever place they could touch.

He felt you go slack under him, heaving in air trying to recover from the high and his weight countering your attempt to even out your breathing. But Geto didn’t shift, he pressed until he was balls deep and flexed his cock inside of you.

“Gonna help me cum now, love?”

You > can you guys meet me at our favourite cafe at 730pm tonight please? It’s important need to talk to you both.

You glanced at the clock in the cafe reading 8:34pm.

They’d both read it not long after you’d sent them both the text in your little group chat, Suguru had only liked it in response.

You wanted to believe they were busy with some kind of mission as usual, that they’d been dragged out last minute and were merely running late.

“Hey, can I get you anything else? You’ve been sat here for awhile-“

“No I’m okay thank you, I’m gonna leave in a moment, can you please box up that cake to go though?”

You smiled politely at the waiter, who only gave a small charming smile back before collecting your empty cup and plate. Saying they’d be right back with a box for Satoru’s current favourite sweet treat you’d gotten him.

He’d probably want it after a long day, seems like they were having one.

You tried to tell yourself, focusing on that to stop your head spiralling into more paranoid trains of thought that matched the sinking gut feeling in your stomach that it wasn’t a mission keeping them occupied.

You wrapped your scarf around you, pulling your jacket on to keep you warm but the cold air still bit at you, fog appearing as your hot breath mixed with it, a heavy sigh leaving you with the simple comfort of cosy clothes on a cold evening.

The bag rustled lightly next to you as you stepped towards your dorm, taking a detour wanting to delay your arrival time because you knew as soon as you stepped through the door you’d be hit with that sinking feeling.

What you didn’t expect were two female sorcerers, the mean girls of the little community, stood around smoking in the entrance way. Your name leaving one of them in a sly, sing song tone.

“Aww, you’re on your own?”

“Get lost, Mila, I’m not in the mood.” You retorted stopping in front of them as they stepped in your path, blowing smoke into your face.

“Yeah, I’d be bummed to if I got replaced, it was only a matter of time though.”

You stayed silent, not wanting to aid their taunting but also slightly curious as to what exactly they were talking about. You thought your silence wouldn’t aid them, however it did the opposite.

“Oh? What’s with that look? You don’t know?”

You let out a heavy sigh, trying to remain passive and bored by them, despite your heart falling into your stomach and anxiousness rushing through your veins like fire.

“What don’t I know, Mila?”

“Satoru’s new interest, Suguru is tagging along as well. I mean they’ve been with her all evening, seen them leaving that little maid cafe Gojo likes.. my friend works there, Satoru’s been smitten all evening. Here-“

The illumination from the phone made you squint, almost flinch to adjust to the sudden brightness shoved in your face… but when they adjusted it was a sight you’d rather have not seen.

Satoru was beaming that stupid smile, throwing an arm over a girls shoulder who was blushing furiously trying to hide it under her jacket. Suguru was behind them on his phone for a call, apparently he could use his phone after all, with some exasperated expression on his face. She slid the screen to another photo of Suguru holding the door open to an apartment complex, the girl walking in and Gojo following.

You had no idea who she was, but she was pretty that was undeniable and you knew that look from Satoru. That goofy, cheeky smile, that arm over the shoulder —you knew how felt to be the one under it with his silly way of flirting and teasing. You knew how that blush felt across her cheeks.

This was why you wanted to talk to them, to get an answer —you find some kind of solution and if you weren’t all agreeing then it would cease between you all. You’d call it off —you’d leave as friends and nothing more.

You wanted to get your answer in a way that was mature, instead you got it like this.

With some bitter bitch holding her phone at you like a damn Oscar that she’s won over you. She shook her phone for emphasis and you thanked the gods for your ability to hold your shit together in front of her.

“So? It was only ever sex, no strings attached.”

“Hah?”

“Bullshit! They wouldn’t sleep with us when we offered it and we’re ten times hotter than you!”

“I don’t have time for this playground shit, get lost.”

You pushed past them both without another word, leaving them to stomp at the ground and the other furiously suck on the rest of her cigarette, puffing it out dramatically through her nose.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

You chanted it inside your head not noticing your pace getting faster as you closed in on your dorm room, eyes and nose stinging to hold back frustrated tears before they spilled for anyone to see in the hallways.

The door slammed unintentionally behind you as you dropped Satoru’s cake to the floor, bag rustling on impact as your back hit the door and you slid for the floor.

“Assholes,”

The teary sneer was heard by only you, left in the silence of your dark room, leaving the lights off so if by chance the boys did happen to remember you they’d think you were asleep and leave you be. You just hoped Satoru wouldn’t overstep any boundaries and teleport into your room, or use his stupid six eyes to seek you out.

You succeeded for an amount of time, crying until you ran out and sat numbly on the floor staring at nothing in particular with your arms wrapped around your knees, forehead resting on your forearms. Ignoring the vibrating of your phone in your pocket, letting the calls ring out to voicemail and ignored the odd buzz of texts coming through.

You wanted to be left alone, for once not answering to them and letting distance happen on your terms, not theirs.

But this was Satoru Gojo you were involved with, someone unable to read the mood well, someone who overstepped boundaries as a form of amusement because he never did see any lines drawn in the sand.

The knock on your door wasn’t subtle, it was testing the water to see if you were awake, perhaps the rest of the dorm as well.

“Satoru shut up! Her lights are off, leave her be.”

“Call her again, see if she answers-“

“It’s nearly midnight, let her sleep we will catch her tomorrow.”

“But I wanna see her, it’s been two days.”

The voices were muffled, they sounded tired but oh so clear on who they belong to and your body tensed in apprehension that Gojo would find his way into your room —see you like this, question why you’re like it.

But it was the rage that suddenly erupted in you —a total 360 from the calm mindset you tried to stay in, that made you stand and grab the door handle. Also the cake you’d bought Satoru to eat when he arrived at the cafe like you’d asked.

You swung the door open, both boys turning back to see you and a goofy smile spread over Gojo’s face.

“See! Told ya sh-“

You threw the cake at him, not expecting it to actually hit him square in the face, smearing the cream over his now wonky glasses and the gobsmacked look on both their faces would have been comical if you were so fucking angry.

“What the hell?!”

“Isn’t your infinity supposed to be up?!”

“It isn’t around you! You’re not a threat so why would I keep it up!”

“Oh?! So I’m weak now?”

“Well yeah, but that’s not what I meant!”

Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply before stepping between you both seeing how you were only bouncing off each other and it was going to spiral faster.

“Can we come in? It’s late, if Yaga finds out we-“

“Finds out what, Suguru?” You sneered, glaring at him harder than you had Satoru. He was using his phone, yet he couldn’t have text you? Let you know?? Screw that!

Geto was stumped, blinking at your attitude and that fact you’d taken it up with him. You never spoke to him like that, you never directed anything at him because it wasn’t him that caused your upset —it was always Gojo.

“That you’re sneaking around, that you’re double teaming whoever when you feel like it?”

“Hey-“

You whirled back to Satoru, pointing at his chest actually making him lean back.

“You I expect it from, being the little fuck boy with the god complex that you are but you-“

Your eyes turned back to Suguru, eyes almost softening on him looking at you like that, he was shocked, not expecting it, almost looked hurt but you were so far gone to even take anything else in that might sway your anger at them.

“I don’t expect it from you, I never did.”

Your voice softened, cracking almost as you felt that angry fog clearing, your wrist being snatched by Gojo made you look back at him and he wasn’t amused.

“We got held up on a mission, which was pretty shitty by the way-“ Satoru’s voice was calm, no playful tone to it like he usually carried, his eyes weren’t leaving yours, not even faltering as he spoke, “-we are sorry we didn’t get back to you about this evening alright? It’s just one evening, you don’t need to be such a bitch about it.”

You snorted a laugh and tried to snatch your wrist away but it failed under his grip.

“Satoru watch your grip,” Suguru moved forwards, seeing that Gojo wasn’t releasing the tension and it was stopping you from getting away like you wanted.

“Get back to me? I was waiting for you guys for over an hour! Tell me how was your mission?”

“You went to the cafe?”

“Well yeah, you liked the message Suguru, I assumed that was a go ahead for it, obviously though I’m not on your list of contacting when you have other females to attend to.”

“You know?”

Your other hand rose to try pry your wrist from Satoru and you tried pulling away, feeling that sting in your nose and eyes again threatening to spill tears you didn’t want them to see. But Gojo’s keen eyes were looking at you like prey, his own blue ones softening for a second when he took a closer look at you.

“You been cryin’?”

“No.”

He rolled his eyes and lifted his other hand to cup your cheek, thumb wiping under your red, puffy eyes giving you some kind of soft smile and it only boiled anger in you further.

Like you expected him to read the situation and take it seriously.

“C’mon, let us inside yeah? We can talk in your room-“ he pursed his lips together in a childish kissy face and leaned forward to kiss you, “-and we can kiss and make up, show you we really are sorry~!”

The childish attempt left Satoru quickly when you tugged your arm harshly to get away and turned your head to the side to avoid the kiss.

“No-“

Suguru was the one to call your name softly and his softness was the thing that cracked your anger, emotions rushing forth in a way that was hard to process, you fought the instinct kicking in to run from them —to be as far away as possible to try save yourself from the heartache crushing your chest.

“I don’t want this —“

The words made Satoru’s grip on you loosen enough to pull yourself from them and back up with your head down, your right hand gripping your left upper arm as you withdrew from them, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“I don’t want this anymore,”

You stepped back and Satoru stepped forward, Suguru was the one to stop him, placing a hand on his shoulder and stepping forward himself.

“Is this what you have been wanting to talk about?”

You nodded unable to meet them, fat tears spilling down your cheeks and it was pitiful. You felt broken it didn’t feel right but it had to be done, you knew this was how it needed to be.

You were declining in this dynamic, between them you were losing yourself.

“Why didn’t you just say something to one of us?”

“Because it’s unfair, it has to be both of you, I couldn’t get one to pass on the message that’s cruel.”

Suguru sighed realising the situation wasn’t going to get any better —you were high on emotions, the most upset he’d ever seen you and you needed space.

Satoru however-

“So that’s it? You’re just done because we didn’t get back to you for one night?”

His head was bowed, white locks covering his eyes but his jaw was tense, his voice quiet yet hard and it only spurred your anger again.

“You left me sitting in a cafe whilst you went out flirting all night in the maid cafe and to double team someone else! You used your phone Suguru and couldn’t even be bothered to message me! I’ve seen the photos. So yeah, I’m done because of this one night, not the girls you constantly flirt with in front of me Satoru, or have them texting you, or you saving their numbers in your pockets!”

The shock was evident on both boys faces, Satoru finally looking up at your outburst, only to see your eyes burning in anger and tears glistening failing to put out the fire in them.

Suguru muttered something about photos, looking somewhat confused.

Whilst Satoru snorted, giving a confusing combination of expression —he was acting like this was ridiculous, like what you said was outrageous. Frown with a light shake of his head but his eyes were contradicting any attitude he used as a facade, they looked hurt… they looked tired.

“So go do what you want, whoever you want —I’m done with being both of you guys little fuck toy.”

“Enough-“

Suguru’s tone was cold, his patience having left him, you rarely seen him angry but he had the audacity to aim it at you.

“It’s late, Satoru and I aren’t in the best place to handle this after today. Things are spiralling and fixing anything like this is futile-“

Gojo turned his eyes away, shoving his hands into his pockets and glaring at the wall like a scolded child.

Suguru’s eyes however, were firmly fixed on you.

“You want space? We will respect that but don’t ever refer yourself to a sex toy again, do you understand?”

He said it with such distaste, such displeasure that you’d seen him pull less of a face consuming curses.

“I don’t want space-“ you were proud of yourself for your voice not breaking, for standing your ground you knew how Geto could lie, how easily he could sway words or situations so you put it in a way that he couldn’t, “-I’m done, Geto.”

Satoru was the first to leave, teleporting himself away without Suguru, the only one brave enough to watch you retreat back in your room, the door quietly clicking and locking behind you.

©pharix/lonelystarrs 2023 permission is not given to repost, translate or post anywhere else.

Disclaimer: demand another part without any actual feedback/liking/reblogging blankly etc will get you blocked. :) it’s really rude to just demand another part to the story without any acknowledgment of the work that’s gone into it. 👎🏻 I do not do tagging systems, YHE follow button is how you keep up to date.

Thank you. 🫶🏻

[sigmathesillyenigma]

poll aside, here are some babysitter / guncle gavin headcanons!! ( for damihux's baby )

tw; one, suggestive? mention, everything else is purely sfw

uncle gavin who's surprisingly good at soothing toddlers, gently clasping his hands around their wriggly arms, rubbing his thumbs back and forth against the tight muscle to ground them. he kneels down to eye level and waits for the worst of the crying to be over, cooing softly as he brings the little one back down to earth.

"oh baby, i know. how frustrating. you okay?"

uncle gavin who teaches his niece/nephew swear words the second they get old enough to talk. out of the kindness of his heart ( and wanting to avoid being throttled by damien ) he waits until the baby has said their first word and the whole "ohmygodourspawncantalk" party is over. gavin who gets throttled by damien anyway.

"mmh, me? you know me better than that, i'd hope. i would never-"

uncle gavin who before having the baby over, was forced by freelancer to join them in a sweep of the house, ensuring anything "suggestive" was stuffed into the darkest depths of their closet, away from wide eyes and curious hands.

"mmph, as long as this won't be too much trouble to grab out later tonight."

uncle gavin who took a strange amount of enjoyment of playing dressup. many photos were sent into the groupchat, by both freelancer and gavin himself, of the incubus being glammed up in shitty princess eyeshadow and plastic dollar store extensions. the fun ended when he realised he'd have to waddle around the house for the next two hours in a too-tight princess dress and feet wedged into little plastic heels with aurora's face plastered all over them. uncle gavin and freelancer who when huxley and damien were too busy to pick up their child from school one afternoon, pulled up together and were immediately dubbed "the cool grown-ups" by the kindergardeners. they relished in it, even if it meant they had to spend an extra ten minutes trying to pry their clingy little fans off their legs.

uncle gavin who is forced into playing horsey, tiny hands tugging in his horns, little feet jammed into his ribs, on all fours and not even in the fun way. proceeds to have to crawl around the house and occasionally say "neigh." footage was doccumented in the groupchat. uncle gavin who when the toddler is getting a bit irritable, biting, hair-pulling, throwing things on the floor, just simply laughs, shifts them around appropriately and chides them gently. "ah ah, don't bite. ouch."

@huxleaf @totallynuwonhere @skunkox ( if you do / dont want a tag, comment!!! )

if this isnt accurate lmk via dms!! im still learning so bekind

[thydungeongal]

What are some of your favorite OSR / BX dungeons and modules?

Oh this is a fun question! First of all, there's Necrotic Gnome's first two Old-School Essentials modules, The Incandescent Grottoes and The Hole in the Oak. These two dungeon crawls actually connect to form one big starter level dungeon which has enough to explore for dozens of sessions. They also demonstrate a lot of the best practices of a good dungeon crawl: there's intelligent creatures living in these dungeons with actual interests and desires, and they don't mindlessly attack player characters unprompted. The group I've been running this for instantly went and negotiated with some kobolds they ran into, despite the language barrier!

The Stygian Library and The Gardens of Ynn by @cavegirlpoems are "depth-crawls" that are broadly compatible with pretty much every OSR game under the sun. The former features an infinite library that is not unlike L-space from Discworld (an infinite space connecting all libraries in existence) where one can theoretically find any book in existence, while the latter features an infinite garden that seems to operate on fairy tale logic. The Stygian Library has an easier "hook" for inserting it into a campaign, since it has a mechanic for tracking the party's progress in finding a piece of information they're looking for, so whenever a party is without some piece of information the GM can simply hint at the existence of the library, while The Gardens of Ynn doesn't have such an easy hook, but simply the idea of exploring the garden is often enough to draw in characters. Both use a procedure for basically making a randomly generated point-crawl where mapping out the exact space doesn't matter as much as the rough relationships of places of importance to each other. Eventually results on the tables will lead to "deeper" locations having secret shortcuts back to earlier locations, and with enough time spent exploring them the map will end up looking very strange and convoluted.

Barkeep on the Borderlands is an event-based "pub crawl" where player characters must look for a missing antidote for a local ruler amid an almost Mardi Gras-like festival. While the module uses a lot of procedures from the Errant RPG, as written it is actually more immediately compatible with B/X. It adds dynamic rules for drinking into the mix and has a huge bunch of cool locations and fun NPCs to encounter.

Ultraviolet Grasslands and the Black City is an absolutely massive point-crawl module that comes with a system attached so it is technically a stand-alone product. It is an absolutely fantastic adventure of leading a caravan through a massive science fantasy sandbox inspired by prog rock covers and the art of Jean Giraud, aka Mœbius.

Tomb of the Serpent Kings by skerples is an absolutely fantastic starter adventure. The purpose of the adventure is to provide something akin to a "Super Mario Bros level 1-1" of old-school play, where players will learn the principles of the old-school playstyle through actually playing the module. It is a fantastic module and completely free!

[nekupilled]

Percy readjusting to the mortal world is so interesting to me.,, he tries, tries so hard but cannot fit in.

His issues aren’t like how it was before, but he’s still suffering in ways, but he can’t really complain about it -won’t complain about it- because he has had it worse before.

One who crawled back from Tartarus’ depths cannot complain about how he doesn’t enjoy algebra, how he wants to skip school because he just can’t have it in him to deal with that one teacher.

He’s getting crushed by the expectations he put on himself, that he endured because he simply had no choice to.